


South for the Winter

by kashicanhaz, Loquitur



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater AU, F/M, Shipwreck, tropical paradise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashicanhaz/pseuds/kashicanhaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loquitur/pseuds/Loquitur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of "Comfort" by Kashicanhaz.</p><p>"Piss-poor shit of a navigator finally figured out we're not in the Sea of Dorne."<br/>"Does he know where we are?"<br/>"You know he doesn't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The author of each chapter will be noted at the beginning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. –Oscar Wilde, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'
> 
> -kashicanhaz

 

::

Sansa woke with a start as she was thrown from the barrel she'd been clutching for gods-knew how long and squeaked as she stumbled bonelessly to her knees, skidding onto a wide, white shore on the strength of the tide.

_Land...Oh gods, LAND!_

She heard herself cry out as she scrambled forward, her vision edged in canopy-green lace and cyan skies, cloudless and mocking her most recent terror. What was left of her dress hindered her movement and sent her sprawling into the sand more than once as she crawled onto the shore of her salvation. The white grains stuck to her salt-wet skin as she fought her way through the sand, looking curiously like sugar on her knuckles, like from her girlhood in Winterfell, when she would sneak into the kitchens to see what sweets she could steal.

Finally, when the waves lapped at her ankles no more, Sansa turned onto her side, panting, and collapsed.

_LAND._

::

When she had fallen asleep the night before, hugging desperately the barrel to her chest in the fury of the churning sea, she had been almost certain she was going to die that night.

She'd heard one of the men on deck whispering that they couldn't get their bearings, that they didn't know where they were in the whole of the world, that the first storm could have blown them right off the edge of the map.

"An' 'oo knows," he drawled, a thick, southern peasant accent halting his speech, "we could be figh'n sea serpents an' gods know wha' else 'round these seas. An' there ain't nothin' we c'n do, 'till th' sun come out, n' we c'n see th' stars..."

That had given her pause, but she knew better than to bring up her reservations with Sandor. Edging towards the railing to cast her eyes out at the rolling hills of the sea, she imagined the conversation they would have, if she was witless enough to start it.

'One of the men says we don't know where we are' she would say to him. He would be quiet for a minute. 'So what if we don't?' he would grunt at her finally. 'They said there might be sea monsters,' she would continue before she could stop herself, then wince, waiting for the rasping laugh that would come afterwards. And he would shake his head, fetching his wineskin from his hip as he muttered 'stupid little bird' and uncorked it, 'sea monsters aren't real,' then put the wineskin to his lips as he skulked off and left her a little worse than he'd found her.

She sighed and put her arms down on the railing. A few minutes later he appeared in the flesh, sauntering up beside her with his wineskin in his fist and a tuneless hum under his breath, as if his persistent nonchalance could distract her, or anyone else for that matter, from his apparent occupation as her shadow. A menacing, snarling git of a shadow, but a shadow nonetheless.

"Piss-poor shit of a navigator finally figured out we're not in the sea of Dorne," he spat, looking at his wineskin contemptuously before drinking from it. "We're turning back east tomorrow like we should have done in the first place."

"Does he know where we are?"

"You know he doesn't."

"I do  _not,_ " she fairly huffed.

"Don't be stupid, girl. These clouds haven't let up for a minute all week."

"It's unkind to call me stupid, Sandor," she tried to bite back, her backtalk coming out in a whimpering mumble.

He shut up anyway, giving way to a silence that took up space.

After a minute under its gathering weight, Sansa was desperate to resume conversation with him. She wanted to avoid the conversation she'd imagined earlier, but there was naught to talk of but the weather on this wretched ship. Weather, or her interactions with the deckhands, though those conversations usually preceded mysterious events wherein the deckhand in question would appear in the mess the next morning, bruised and broken and avoiding her like the plague.

She had her suspicions about what was going on, but she didn't raise them with him, her shadow. She couldn't exactly say she misliked being avoided by the crew anyway, especially those she thought to mention.

"Is it close to sundown?" she asked him.

He smirked, lifting the wineskin to his lips. "You can see as good as me, little bird. What do you think?"

 _That's not true_  she wanted to argue; his eyes were much better—she'd found that out on the road—but she humoured him, scanned the horizon to all sides of them, looking for a darkening patch of sky that might denote the west and oncoming night-time. There was a patch behind them, dark and greenish, and she figured that was probably it.

"I think so," she said, returning the weight of her upper body to the railing of the ship as it lurched beneath them. That didn't even bother her anymore. "It's not going to clear up tonight either, is it?" she asked, a statement.

He shook his head, took a sip of his wine, and offered it to her. She refused.

"It looks like it's getting dark behind us," she said on a sigh. "Port side," she added, when she remembered the words.

He chuckled darkly, lifting the wine to his lips. "We're  _headed_  west, girl. If it's getting dark anywhere, it's ahead of us."

Sansa creased her brow for a second. "Then what's that darkness over there?"

Sandor turned, shooting a dismissive and curt glance over his shoulder at the sky for a moment before whipping back for a frenzied double-take, swallowing hard in a way she could tell he didn't want her to notice.

"That's not dark, girl," he said, taking her arm in his grasp, physical contact still a weighty and tenuous thing between them. "That's a  _storm_ brewing. And fast."

::

"Well?" she asked him as he ducked back into their room at the inn, a cramped little thing overlooking the docks near Stonehelm, on Cape Wrath. He huffed, tearing the hood back from his head, hair mussed in the persistent humidity, and sat down in a chair by the door, unlacing his boots to put off answering her. As she'd come to understand him, this either meant things were very, very bad, or exactly as she'd hoped they would be.

He sighed again before admitting sourly, "well, you got your wish, little bird. I hope you're happy."

She was, in fact,  _very_  happy, but their peace was an uneasy one at best. Instead of gloating, she flopped back onto the lumpy bed with glee and sighed. " _Lys..."_

"Bound for Volantis," he grunted, kicking his second boot to the floor and peeling his soaking stockings out from under his breeches so he could dry them by the brazier. "Sailing through the stepstones. I gave the captain a dragon to let us off at Lys. Setting sail at midday, so you can sleep as long as you like."

She sat up again, unable to keep herself from beaming. He watched her with the strangest look of defeat in his eyes as she drew up to him, a thanks she knew he wouldn't accept on the tip of her tongue like a thirst. Momentarily she entertained the notion of pressing a kiss to his cheek in gratitude, and what kind of man he would be if he would accept it. She touched her fingertips to his shoulder instead, looked him in the eyes and gave him a square "thank you, Sandor. Really."

"Don't thank me girl, it just worked out that way," he said gruffly, an edge of what might have been sheepishness creeping into his sober voice. He reached for the wineskin on the table and, cursing, must have found it unsuitably light. "I'm getting more wine," he announced, reaching to pull his boots back onto his bare feet. "What should I tell the cook to bring you up for supper?"

She asked for the same meal she'd had the night before, and began to remind him of its contents before he hushed her, waving a hand dismissively and grumbling, "I remember, I remember," as he sidled back out the door.

For someone who liked to mock her for 'always having everything she wanted,' he seemed rather keen to keep it that way, she thought, a thoughtful grin turning on her cheeks.

As if to prove her point, he ducked his head back into the room. "You don't have to have the same thing again tonight if you don't want it."

"I'm happy with the chicken," she responded, sitting back down on the bed.

He chewed on that for a moment, looking at the floor. "The beef's not too expensive," he rasped, and then, "I'll get you the beef, if you want it."

"I'd rather have the chicken, Sandor," she said. His eyes flicked up to meet hers at his name, and for a moment his lips twitched and parted, as if he meant to argue. But then he left again.

::

Now that the sea was no longer trying to kill her, she sat on the beach, catching her breath, and surveyed her surroundings. Wherever she was, it was still summer—the air she pulled greedily into her lungs warm in the sun and scented heavy with sweet flowers. The shore she'd found was narrow, disappearing into a thicket of dark green trees with wide, waxy leaves that played host to choruses of strange birds singing, their raised voices curiously harmonious and unified. The azure sea beyond was dotted with distant spits of land in every direction she could see, none however looking much bigger than the one she'd washed up on. It was the sort of place that would be paradise, she imagined, had she assurance of her survival.

Which, with Sandor and everyone else on the crew likely dead and in any case absent, was unlikely at best.

And just like that, all the gratitude she had for her survival dried up. Instead of drowning peacefully in her sleep, as the rest of the ship likely had (though admittedly less peacefully), she would die slowly and alone in this gods-forsaken mock-paradise, destined to burn up in the sun or starve to death or much, much worse, depending on what creatures lurked in the dark forest at her back. She felt a lump of tears rise in her throat as she hugged her knees to her chest.  _If I'd just let go of that thrice-damned barrel, I could be with Father and Lady right now. And Uncle Brandon. And Aunt Lyanna..._

_And Sandor..._

But before she started to cry, her spine began to prickle at a distant sound that sat discordant in the music of the island.

_Hoof beats._

::

Sandor took her below-decks to her chambers once the storm hit them in earnest, the sky and sea uniting in an angered upheaval, each striving to reach and lash out at the other, tossing the ship between them like a toy.

"Try to be brave little bird," he said, almost compassionately, as he shoved her into her cabin. "And if you get seasick, try to find some other place to do it. I doubt a pretty little bird like yourself wants to spend the afternoon in a puddle of her own sick."

She meant to reprimand him for his crudeness, but when she opened her mouth to speak she found herself facing the inside of her door. Frowning, she spun on her heel, the floor falling away from her suddenly and making her stumble back into her bunk, pulling her knees up to her chest, trying to focus her attention on being angry with Sandor instead of dreading the possibility of being sick. She gripped the bed frame around her fury, settling into a pattern of thought that reminded her of all of her shadow's displeasing qualities—his temper, his tongue, his affect. He had hardly touched her since the battle of the Blackwater, and when he had, he'd handled her with all the care of a father with his daughter's porcelain doll. For some reason, this surfaced in her consciousness as a grievance, finding herself curiously longing for the closeness they'd shared that night the world was aflame.

She had been about to delve deeper into this longing when the ship pitched starboard and violently threw her from her bunk, her dress catching and tearing on a ragged floorboard as the storm dragged her across the floor.

She had been so focused on Sandor that she hadn't even thought about the storm, but now it resurfaced into her consciousness with a malicious and uncaring bravado, leaving her scuffling for purchase as she climbed back to her feet. How had she not before heard the wind screaming against the mast and sails? The sea slapping against the wood of the bow? The whole ship groaning, as if under great stress? Her nerves were thrown into a fever pitch, and every little sound—of which there were far too many—only agitated her panic.

A deafening crack rang out, and then, a couple of minutes later, another. Water was creeping from beneath her door and wetting her skirts. Her eyes were beginning to wet, too.  _This storm will sink the ship._

_We are going to drown._

_We are going to die._

Her door busted open on a hard toss port side, and she screamed and covered her face, certain it was a wall of water beyond her door, that these were her final moments.

But water does not rasp.

"Little bird."

He took up the entire doorway, she saw from between her fingers. His eyes were wide and white, his face cast in the combined shadow of the storm and the natural darkness of her cabin. He waited for her to allow him entry, she realized.

Even then.

"Sandor!" She choked, opening her arms. That was all the invitation he needed, apparently, to come stumbling into her cabin, falling to his knees beside her and gathering her up.

"Little bird, I've got to tell you something," he said hoarsely, pulling her against his chest and into his lap, burying his fingers in her wet and knotted hair.

"Are we going to die Sandor?" She interrupted, her fear turning her into a small child with all a child's patience.

"Listen to me! It's important. I want you to—" the storm cut off his snarling with a hard lurch starboard, wind and sea screaming, nearly drowning out his voice. "I want you to know. I should've—" and again the ship lurched, and he drew her tighter into his arms.

She could feel the warmth from beneath his jerkin now, tempering the chill of her wet and exposed skin.  _Be careful for what you wish for_ , she thought morbidly, tucking her face into his neck and feeling his warmth against her cheek, breathing in his scent and finding her fear minutely calmed.

"Seven fucking hells, take this buggering ship! Sansa, I— _look_ at me, damn it!"

He wrenched her face away from where she'd tucked it against his neck, her whole jaw cradled in his palm, callused but somehow still gentle as he held her. The queerest expression crossed over his face, the frantic, violent urgency in his eyes softened and clouded with something like awe as she adjusted her wrists around her neck, shifting closer to him. His thumb twitched on her cheekbone as if he was  _thinking_  about stroking it, before the ship jolted and groaned, making her gasp and throw herself into his chest, his hand on her jaw curling around to the back of her neck and holding her fast.

And then they heard it.

A snap. A keening. Shouts up in a chorus.

"What was—"

"We've got to go," he growled, scooping her up as he stood.

"Go?! Go where?! Where is there to go?! We can't  _go—"_

She stopped short as he dropped her on the deck, which, aside from lacking its two smaller masts entirely, was now nearly cleaved in half by the great mast, which had fallen and cracked the bow. The ship was sinking heavily forward into the water now, the waves washing up the deck and pulling sailors out into the water with superlative ease.

It was a surreal and terrifying sight, slowing everything in her perception to the speed of sap. Sandor seemed to be the only other person on the boat, the only voice she could hear, other than the sea's.

"What do you  _mean_  you haven't got any boats on board, you bleeding shit?!"

"Sansa, I need you to listen to me. Hold onto this barrel and keep your head up."

"Please be brave, little bird. You're a lucky one. Someone will find you."

"I'm going to find my horse. Make sure he has a chance to get off this bleeding ship at least. So he can drown fighting like the rest of us."

And then he was gone.

For far, far too long he was gone.

"Sandor!" she shouted into the wind as the deck began to sink into the waves, black water lapping up to re-soak her skirts. She still held the barrel in her arms, resolved not to let it go as he'd told her. "SANDOR!"

A skip of the waves swept her off her feet with a cry and into the sea, her head going under for a second before she resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, her blood turned solidly to horror. And still he was nowhere.

"SANDOR!"

The waves were kinder than she expected them to be, pulling her up and down with them as they rose and fell. The rain was brutal, pelting the skin on her cheeks and forehead until it felt raw, between the force and the cold. She almost wanted to put her face into the ocean to warm it again—the warmth of the water was the strangest thing—but Sandor had told her to keep her head up. So she did. As long as she could.

" _SANDOR!_ "

When the storm finally began to relent, the waves calming and smoothing and the rain easing to a gentle pitter-patter on her face, she took a glance over her shoulder and found herself alone in the sea. Where there had only an hour before been a ship full of people and goods, now there were naked waves. The ship, the people, the goods, had all seemingly slipped beneath.

"...Sandor..."

All but her, anyway.

 _You don't know that he's dead. You don't. You_ _**don't** _ _._

Maybe he was right. Maybe she was lucky.

She didn't feel too lucky, all alone as she was.  _If I was truthfully lucky, Sandor would be here too._

But he wasn't. Right or there with her.

::

_Ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump._

All laments of her survival were fled from her mind as she scrambled to her feet, looking around for some hiding place that might preserve it.

 _And Sandor would be upset with you if you died so soon anyway. Upset with you or himself. Probably himself,_  she thought, tucking herself behind a bush with leaves like long blades of grass as the hoof beats drew nearer.

And nearer.

And nearer.

"Easy, boy," she heard an all-too-familiar voice rasp and, her head swimming with dizzy confusion, she was suddenly unsure she was alive after all...

But there were too many things wrong for this to really be the Seven Heavens. Her dress, for one. Septa Mordane said nothing about arriving to the Seven Heavens in tattered rags, nursing wounds on her legs, her skin flushed and irritated from a night and day spent at the mercy of the sea and sun. She also understood that she would not feel hunger or thirst in the afterlife, which she currently did to a painful degree. And then there was the solitude—where were all the other faithful who had perished? Her family? Her  _direwolf_?

And what business did  _Sandor Clegane_  have in the Seven Heavens?

He was in the process of following her tracks to the bush when she emerged from it, her pursuer drawing back before breaking into a nasty grin. He'd lost his tunic and jerkin sometime since the shipwreck, leaving his chest improperly bare, but thankfully had maintained possession of his breeches and dirk belt, the weapon hanging off his right hip.

"I was right...Gods, I don't know how I did it. The Seven Heavens!" he bellowed with a laugh before scooping her up into his arms and swinging her around in a circle. "I've got my horse and my little bird. Gods, what did I do to deserve  _this!?_ "

"Sandor, this isn't—"

But he cut her off with a kiss. A  _kiss._  Right on the  _mouth._

Her hands flew to his face and she pushed him away, screeching haughtily when she finally broke free. "My  _lord_!"

He frowned. "Little bird?"

"We are still  _alive_ , my lord! This isn't the Seven Heavens! This is an island!" He dropped her into the sand like she had the pox. "Gods only know where we are..."

" _Fuck,_ " he swore, turning away from her, something that looked suspiciously like a blush creeping up his neck.

It was probably just the heat of the sun. She'd been feeling it too, after all, on her ears and cheeks and the bridge of her nose...

"You didn't honestly think the Gods would make us  _swim_  to the Seven Heavens, did you? Don't you know  _anything_  about the Faith?!"

"Oh  _that's_  rich, coming from Joff's stupid talking bird!" He hissed back, all his glee and affection gone, his fury resumed. "Since when do you know anything about  _anything?!_ " he snapped petulantly.

"I'm nobody's bird," she spat back, though she rather felt like she was nursing a broken wing. Or a broken wrist. He'd dropped her onto her arm, and it was hurting ferociously.

He only turned back away from her, petting his horse as he breathed heavily, letting her watch the ripple and play of his tanned, muscled back, littered with pink and silver-gold scars like ribbons. She smiled a little at the idea of Sandor Clegane with a handful of pretty ribbons stuck to his skin, but his silence outlasted her amusement.

"So now what?" she finally asked. "What do we do?"

He sighed heavily and addressed her without turning back around. "We make camp. We find food. We wait for someone to find us and get ourselves back to Lys. Or any of the free cities, at this rate."

"What will we do when we get there? You've lost your gold. And my jewels. And your sword."

He spun around as she was talking, eyes narrowed and angry again.

"Don't assume we'll get  _off_ this island, little bird. I'm handy enough with a dirk to keep us safe. And bugger that. You're  _my_  little bird if I say you are."

She cocked her head, but figured it was wiser not to ask what he was talking about.

"Let's stay on the beach for tonight," he said, leading her back to where the shore seemed broadest. "We can explore the wood in the morning. I want to watch the horizon and see if we're in the midst of some trading route. With your luck, we might just be."

"What do you want me to do?" She asked, halting him as he began to stalk away.

He turned halfway back to her, frowning. "Dig a pit in the sand for a fire. Look for kindling in the edge of the wood. See if you can find any fruit. And don't leave my sight."

And with that he stalked back into the lapping waves just off the shore, withdrew his dirk from his hip, stood very still, and waited.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Loquitur.

Waves of a deep turquoise blue lapped against his ankles, pushing and pulling the white sand on the shore in a rhythm the sea had kept for ages before he had arrived, and would continue for ages after his bones had long turned to dust. Its permanence despite its unruly tempestuousness was, in a way, soothing. Half-naked and seething, he would need all the help he could get.

The horizon was bereft of ship or boat, had been for at least two hours, and the only sign of the carnage they had escaped was the driftwood that carried them ashore. Sandor clutched the hilt of his dirk with white knuckles and spat into the thrice-damned surf.

Fool. Idiot. Moron. Stupid piece of shit.

How dare he assume that he would get into the Seven Heavens. How dare he fucking  _assume_  that the little bird would be his reward. Hadn't the girl (woman, the back of his mind whispered) suffered enough in life? Surely her short years had not been so sinful as to warrant the punishment of being shackled to him for eternity.

The burnt side of his face twitched furiously. He tried to rub away the tick with the heel of his palm, but even that small thing evaded him.

They were not dead. They were deserted on a godforsaken island in the middle of fucking  _nowhere_ — he had long abandoned hope that they might be in the sea of Dorne— probably consigned to a nasty fate of death by dehydration, and this time he wouldn't have any illusions about where he would end up. There would be no little birds to kiss and hold in the fiery pits that awaited him.

That kiss was definitely worth going to hell for. She had been so soft, so sweet, her lips pliable beneath his. Bliss had flooded the core of his being. For a brief moment, he was able to believe that he had escaped his miserable, rage-filled existence to find heaven in the form of her hands on his face. How wrong he had been, to think that she was going to caress him. He was starved for tenderness, had been starving since his mother and sister passed, and she was certainly not inclined to satiate his ravenous hunger.

He grimaced.  _Stupid, stupid dog_. White hot anger burned in his chest as he replayed the moment Sansa had pushed away from him, how he had not been able to say what needed to be said when he thought they were going to die in that tempest, how he failed yet again.  _At least I managed to get her out of the damned Red Keep alive_ , he thought before a mirthless bark of laughter escaped him.  _And to what end?_

A seagull shrieked overhead, as if in reply. He hadn't liked the look of that Volantene ship in the first place. The Lorathi vessel next to it had looked twice as strong, and its crew half as stupid, but the little bird wanted to go to Lys. And he, fool that he was, tried to fulfill her wish. _Damn it all, I'm going soft._

The left corner of his lips rose, not unlike a dog raises its hackles. Bugger the gods in their nonexistent asses if they thought he was going to die without ensuring Gregor's inevitable trip to hell first. Claiming the little bird as his own was merely a bonus. It was doubtful that they would ever find a way off the island, but fuck him if he wasn't going to at least try.

With his resolve renewed, the Hound turned away from the rolling tide. It was well past midday, judging by the lengthening shadows. They would have a few hours of daylight to set up a rudimentary shelter and, hopefully, fill their starving bellies. Stranger had already started on the latter, tearing out clumps of sea grapes from the sand and chewing noisily in his obnoxious, horsey way. "Don't go too far, you wretch."

The black courser whickered spitefully and returned to his meal.

The shore was littered with palms in various sizes and swathes of sea grapes. He could only name a few breeds of flora along the beach; some he recognized from the coast of Kings Landing, others from his travels to the Free Cities when he was Cersei's shield.

His field training in making shelters called for a much different kind of tree, but there was no other choice unless they went further inland. He trudged into the brush, oriented himself so he could keep an eye on the horizon, and began hacking at a short palmetto. Sansa's position was not too far away, as evidenced by the sound of parting palm fronds and a soft humming. Every now and again, when he lifted his head from his work, he would catch a flash of auburn among the brush.

He soon had a considerable pile of verdant fans, his brow streaked with sweat and dirt in a raw display of his efforts. They would do nicely as a canopy if he could contrive a way of weaving them together without rope. The stems (if they could be called that) were profoundly rigid; only through a concerted exertion on his part had he been able to snap one in half.

He was beginning a crude overlap of the fronds when a feeling of unease danced up his spine. A quick scan of his surroundings showed Stranger further down the beach, the surf, foliage, a small heap of kindling, but no Sansa. The humming had ceased as well. He felt the thick hair on his arms rise. "Little bird?" he called.

No response.

He abandoned the wreath of palm fronds to stride further into the brush. A brightly colored lizard hissed at his passing before slithering further up the coconut tree that served as its home. Perhaps they could exploit the tree later, if he could find a rock jagged enough to break through the fruit's tough husk; it was a trick he remembered the exiled prince, Jalabhar Xho, demonstrating on a coconut imported to Kings Landing from Dorne, long before Robert's gutting by that pig.

"Little bird!" he shouted, an edge of panic creeping into his voice.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck. I take my eyes off her for two minutes…_  "Little bird!" A lion could have made off with her, dragged her further into this tropical hellhole in a trail of gore before feasting upon her bloody entrails. But a lion wouldn't prowl this close to the beach… would it? No, there was no way; lions usually kept to wide grassy plains, far away from any saltwater. They were probably safe from most of the land predators he knew of. Except one.

There was no guarantee that the island was deserted. She could've been snatched up by rapists. Or cannibals. Or rapist-cannibals. Fuck.

"Sansa! SANSA!"

"Over here!"

Relief flooded his chest cavity with its icy catharsis. "Where?" He trampled over leaf and vine to reach the source of that sweet, sweet sound.

"Up here," her voice piped somewhere above his head.

At the base of a large, leafy tree was a cluster of dates and a number of small, hard-looking oranges. He looked up into the tree and spied Sansa sitting on a thick branch close to the trunk. Her left arm was laden with several large, aromatic fruit, her right hugging the trunk for support. The tatters of her dress clung to her form like ragged feathers. She was beaming at him, triumphant in her accomplishment. "Found a roost, have you?" the snarl came unbidden as his concern morphed into rage. "I thought I told you to stay close."

Her proud smile fell. "There weren't any other fruit trees around, and I couldn't find any on the lower branches so I—"

"Scampered up there so you could fall like that brother of yours? Stupid girl, you survive that storm just to risk breaking that pretty little neck?"

"That's unkind Sandor." Her frown turned stormy. She attempted to cross her arms, forgetting her burden, and flailed momentarily. He rushed forward with his heart in his throat. She was able to find her purchase without dropping the fruit, at the sacrifice of her indignant face.

"Who do you think would be the one to put you out of your misery, if you fell and didn't have the  _courtesy_  to die straight away?" He could not restrain his need to cause pain in the hopes of diverting attention away from his own wounds, still gaping and bloody from her rejection. "You ever see a man fall and not die immediately? Start babbling nonsense while their brains leak out the back of their skull. You could live for hours after it, if someone's not there to give you the gift of mercy. That what you want?"

"I didn't think it was that high," she muttered.

"Care to find out?" His eyes flashed with venom.

"No! I mean… I can't get down," she finished lamely.

He rolled his eyes. "Thrown down that shit you're holding."

"But they'll bruise."

"Just toss the damn fruit."

She dumped the bounty from her arms. He made a half-hearted effort at catching them, saving five from splattering upon the ground with his hands, and three more by lessening the force of their momentum with his body. Sansa stood up on the branch, her skinned knees flashing briefly between her ruined silks. "You should be able to get down now."

Her brow furrowed as she calculated the distance between the branch and the ground, her equations, no doubt, muddled by vertigo. She chewed her bottom lip, looked at him, then at the ground, then back to him. "Really?" he snarled.

"Could you? Please?"

The Hound growled as he set down the fruit among the tree's roots. With that done, he gave her an exasperated look and held out his arms. Still, she hesitated. "Seven hells, I'm not going to drop you, girl. Just jump."

Sansa launched out of the tree and into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. He folded her into his embrace and buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply to replace the air he had lost. Her womanly scent, stripped away of its usual mask of perfumes and fragranced soaps, swirled around his nose, slightly tainted by the tang of sea salt. She squirmed in his arms, her palms pushing against his bare skin. His hold on her had lasted just beyond the trappings of propriety. He released her with a pang of regret. "Get started on the fire pit."

He left her to gather up the fruits of her labor alone.

Sandor finished their shelter just before sunset. His erected the woven structure between a trio of coconut palms, having found a way to use strips of the fan-like leaves to crudely tie the entire thing together. Sansa had chosen the trees earlier and dug out a pit for their fire with her hands. The kindling was stacked in a haphazard manner, for she had no experience with building her own fires. He knelt before the pit, arranging the tinder in such a fashion that the sea breeze would neither extinguish it, nor set their encampment ablaze. His flint had been lost in the storm, so he started the fire the way his father had taught him, and his father's father had been taught before him, all the way down their unrecorded peasant line. Two carefully chosen sticks and a wealth of friction were enough to birth the flames that destroyed his face all those years ago. He fought the urge to reel away from the growing fire. Instead, he sought out the cool water.

Sandor looked up from the pit. Sansa was standing, calf-deep, in the ocean. The dying light reflected off the waves, staining her figure in the peach tints of sunset. She watched the sun's fading rays dip beneath a horizon unblemished by the silhouette of passing ships. Her matted hair glittered, now bronze, now gold, now a rich burgundy.

A last corona of light burst behind her, while her shredded skirts undulated with the breeze. She strode out of the surf within a rush of sea foam, possessed with all the glory of a primitive ocean goddess. Bits of powdery white sand dusted her legs as she walked up the beach and joined man and steed in their makeshift shelter. Stranger was lying with most of his body underneath the palm canopy. His head stuck out of the shelter, though not of his own volition. Sandor caught him with his muzzle deep in dates, and had to drag the warhorse away from the remaining fruit by viciously tugging on his reins. He could not banish Stranger completely, however, so a compromise was formed. The courser's immense body heat would keep them from freezing through the night— a very real fear, since they had no blankets— and his ass was not greedy enough to shovel their food into itself of its own accord.

Stranger snorted at Sansa and bared his teeth. She, in turn, picked up one of the oranges from their pile of fruit and fed it to him, careful to snatch back her fingers to avoid his indiscriminate bite. Though they both were famished, the oranges had proven to be far too bitter for either Sansa or Sandor to stomach. The stallion was more than happy to relieve them of their citrus burden.

The Hound sliced up one of the fruits Sansa retrieved from that tree with his dirk while she took a seat between him and his horse. The fruit was somewhat oblong in shape with rosy colored skin and a rich orange flesh within. Pulp burst down his forearm as he peeled away the skin. He offered her a thick slice at the point of his dirk. "That looks rather messy."

"You don't have to eat it."

"I didn't say I didn't want it," she plucked the piece of fruit and popped it into her mouth. She hummed with pure joy as juice leaked out the corners of her lips. "Oh wow. Sandor, it's delicious."

He bit off a chunk of the fruit close to the pit. "It's alright, I guess. Here, have the rest."

She greedily tore into the ripe flesh while he contented himself with the soft dates. They ate their fill in silence, but for the crackling flames and Stranger's occasional snort as he begged for more oranges. Sansa indulged the courser every so often and patted his flank tenderly. "You'd better watch him. His back end's as dangerous as his front."

She swallowed a mouthful of fruit before responding. "You won't let him hurt me."

"No, little bird. I won't."

A chorus of cicadas chirruped around them in concert with crashing timpani of the rising tide. "Sandor."

"Hm?"

"Do you think we're stuck here?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "We'll find out tomorrow. Get some rest."

Much to his surprise, Sansa curled up along Stranger's side and the stallion did nothing to deter her. On the contrary, he tucked his head into his forelegs and flickered his tail to rest over her exposed legs. "What did you do to my horse?"

"Same as you. I treated him with respect."

He mulled over her words as the fire died down. If they were going to explore the island tomorrow, he would need a weapon he could use from Stranger's back. He was already at a gross disadvantage having to ride bareback on top of every other detriment from the storm. Come morning, he would look for a sapling he could sharpen into a rude spear. Maybe build some stake traps if they found any game trails.

"Sandor?" Sansa piped, maybe an hour later.

"What?"

"I'm cold."

"You've got Stranger at your back."

"And it's my front that's cold."

His muscles tensed. "What do you want me to do about it?"

He could almost smell the uncertainty in her silence. "Sansa."

"Would you come here… please?"

He shifted to the other side of the fire and kneeled before her. Though he was still stinging from her behavior earlier, he could not help but desire to be close to her. That did not mean he was willing to bend to her whims. If she wanted something, she would have to command it of him. And if she was unable or unwilling to voice her desires, then she could shiver throughout the night as far as he cared.

"What do you want?"

"I know this is highly improper, but… if you could just… lie down…"

His first instinct was to snap something at her and return to his end of the fire. He even considered it while he lowered himself to the ground beside her, facing out so he could maintain the illusion that he was keeping watch. The little bird curled alongside his bare back, pressing gentle hands to his shoulder blades. She stuck her feet into the backs of his knees, and he hissed at the contact. "Seven hells, your feet are cold!"

"I'm sorry, my lord, I could—"

"It's fine. Sleep." He rasped.

"Good night, Sandor." She sighed happily with her cheek alongside his shoulder.

He said nothing in return. Instead, he looked out to the moonbeams dancing along the foamy wave heads and tried not to think about her warm breath on his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kashi would like to remind everyone that she is not a racist.

By the time the early morning sun roused her from her sleep, not quite fitful but sprinkled with moments of waking, Sandor was gone and, she figured, had likely been gone as long as he could have been. Something within her was offended at the thought, cringing inwardly at the recollection of his demeanour the night before, the way he had grimaced and glared at her even as he did as she asked, lowering himself to lay beside her before abruptly turning his back to her, bare but for the veil of soft sand sticking to it. And then he'd sworn at her about how cold her feet were, and she was being such a burden to him she knew, but...she just wanted him to...

 _Well, what sort of sworn protector would he be if he allowed me to freeze in my sleep?!_  she couldn't help but think haughtily, tucking her head into her shoulder and causing a cascade of her hair to fall in her face that was so potently scented with him she nearly choked, so suddenly did her throat dry out. And then the broken moments from the night before began to filter back into her consciousness from where they'd been gathered, someplace beyond it like the realm of dreams.

She'd fallen asleep with her hands and feet tucked against his skin, warm and dewy with sweat and sea salt, her lungs swimming in scents lifted from his body that would be entirely unacceptable in court but were, oddly, a sublime comfort and a guilt-ridden treat all at once. The rhythm of his breathing under her palms, deep and even and counter to the rush of the sea, dragged her under the surface of consciousness in the strong arms of assured safety—his strong arms—and when she woke again, slitting her eyes open before wakefulness lifted her in full, she found herself on her opposite side, her head cushioned on one of his strong arms, tucked 'neath her temple, her cheek. His other arm had come around her middle, holding her close to him, his body curled around her as much as could be, it seemed, one leg thrown over hers, sealing her in a pocket of warmth between him and the horse. But she found what had woken her—he shivered again—and so she turned, tucked her face into his chest and slipped her arms, what little warmth they held, around his waist, rubbing him for friction and warmth, and he grunted appreciatively somewhere from beyond the taint of his unpleasantness, and nuzzled his ruined face into the crown of her head.

 _How queer of him,_  she then thought, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and drawing her knees up from her chest, figuring he'd want her to stay there until he reappeared from wherever he'd stalked off before she'd woken, likely accomplishing some task of paramount importance to their survival. Unless she was wrong, of course, and he scolded her for her inaction upon his reappearance, which, with her current understanding of him, was just as likely.  _Safer to stay put, though,_ she thought; but she discovered, after not a minute of wriggling her toes in the sand and humming to herself, that she had to make water very badly and so, with no other agreeable options, she worked her smallclothes off from under her ruined skirts, gathered them tightly around her thighs, and waded out into the lapping waves.

She had failed to appreciate, staggering onto the beach the day before, just how clear and  _blue_  the water was. The shores around King's Landing and Cape Wrath had both a dun murkiness to their tone, but here she could easily see her toes, stained blue through the prism of the water, and was delighted by it. Little fish, glittering silver, darted around in the undulation of the shallows with all the speed and grace of birds in the air above. And the birdsong.  _Gods,_  she thought in awe, as the jungle beyond the beach was raised in a blithesome chorus, all titters and caws and trills, teeming with the promise of life, life! They'd go exploring it today, she recalled with a smile, lowering her hindquarters into the waves, skirts gathered around her bosom, not wanting to wet them despite their extensive soak not a day past.  _I really am a silly little bird,_  she thought to herself, splashing back to shore on slowed legs, the push and pull of the ocean spurring her forward and fighting her in turns.

 _I wonder how long he's been gone for,_  she started to wonder, once the sand beneath her toes was dry enough to stick to her feet. He couldn't have  _meant_  to be gone so long, having left her only under the protection of the courser, who was, admittedly, a likely more-than-adequate defender in his absence. But her worry had not abated, even as the horse lifted his heavy head from the sand and began to stagger upright, pacing lazily to where she stood closer to the shore with a snort.

"Do you think we should look for him?" she asked the horse as he drew near, placing a tentative palm on his nose, frozen still until he pushed into it, encouraging her touch. He snorted.

"You're right, he'll be cross if he comes back and we've wandered far...but I'm getting apprehensive, aren't you?"

The horse whickered.

"Perhaps if we just walk the beach, see if we can see him anywhere?"

Stranger dipped his head, as if nodding, and started to plod off to her left, flicking his tail in her face when she was tardy in following. Laying a hand on his flank she followed, ducking around so she put the horse between her and the shoreline, casting her eyes out into the thick green, ears pricked for crashing sounds that could be Sandor. Stranger's ears were pricked too, twisting and swivelling independent of one another, and she watched them with a little smile peeking onto her lips, tweaking her cheeks with pain.

She furrowed her brow at its appearance, which only sent a further twinge of pain across her skin.  _This is bizarre,_ she thought, lifting her fingertips to her face tentatively, stroking and pinching the skin she found unduly warm. A similar situation had arisen on her shoulders and neck, and her forearms to a lesser extent, stained pink as if with a flush. But the skin hidden beneath her silks, sodden and ruined and stifling as they were, was painless and as white as she had always known it to be.  _Bizarre indeed. Sandor will likely be able to explain this. But where has he gotten off to?_

It was not until after she had rounded a bend in the shore obscuring their camp from view that her eyes caught a glint in the surf, too bright to be the water and approached it, finding it was a helm likely washed up from the shipwreck. Squatting in the lapping waves she shook it loose from the hold of the shore, only to gasp as she discovered it was no ordinary helm.  _His dog's-head helm. He will be so pleased!_ She danced back to Stranger, holding it up for him to appreciate. "Recognise this?" She asked. He turned his ears from side to side.

Just then did Sandor made himself known, bellowing her name with the same desperation she'd heard in his voice when she had been in the fruit tree the day before.  _Which, if I recall correctly,_  she thought chidingly to herself, spinning on her heel and clicking at Stranger to follow, _means he's like to be cross with me._ She sighed inwardly.

" _Coming, Sandor!_ " she called out as loudly as she could, breaking into a jog with Stranger walking lazily at her heels. As she started to round back into view she noticed a strange friction at the juncture of her thighs, and then remembered.  _My smallclothes._

_I left them on the beach._

_Oh Gods._

_**Oh Gods!** _

She nearly dropped dead of mortification right there.

Sure enough, as she staggered into view, he was standing by the remains of their fire, a bounty of fruit cradled in one arm and—oh, she was so embarrassed she nearly fainted—her smallclothes  _in his hand._

" _There_  you are," they said concurrently, her voice heavy with artificial relief to mask her internal distress while histone was accusing, irate. It would have made her blush with shame at angering him had she not been blushing already.

" _Seven hells_  girl, where have you been!?" He snarled, dropping the fruit in the sand before jogging towards her, her intimate, discarded garment still clutched in his fist. "You are unhurt?"

"Yes, my lord, I'm  _fine—_ I was looking for you, actually—look! I found your—"

" _Without your bloody smallclothes?!_ "

"I—"

"Gods damn me, girl, I thought you'd been raped!"

"Gods, no! I—"

"You are unhurt?" he reiterated, reaching out to shake her gently. "Are you ill?"

"I'm  _fine,_  really!" she managed to get out before he interrupted her. "I just went to make water and forgot I'd left them..." she admitted, her cheeks feverish with the rush of blood. "But look! I found your helm!" She tried to hold it up for him to admire, finding her arm too weak to lift it on its own.

"Bugger the helm! You nearly killed me with shock, girl, really..." he snarled, dropping his fist with the offensive garment back,  _just_  out of her reach. "No more stalking off, with  _or_  without the buggering horse, you hear?" And then he turned, apparently forgetting to return her smallclothes, and started walking back to camp.  _He is joking. He_ _ **has**_ _to be._  "I found some more of those fruits you li—"

She interrupted him by clearing her throat as loudly as she could, shock and offense so etched into her stinging, reddened features that she would have thought it impossible to misinterpret her meaning.  _Impossible_.

He turned halfway around, regarding her lazily before narrowing his eyes at her and turning to face her squarely. " _What_ ," he spat, "my lady?" he added, too late to be anything but sarcastic. "Need help with the buggering helm?"

She blinked at him.  _He's mocking me. He means to make me ask._ "Please, ser," she spat haughtily, hoping that would suffice, dropping the helm into the sand to cross her arms.

"I am  _not_ " he began to growl, trudging back to where she stood, rooted to the ground by her mortification. "A bleeding  _knight,_ girl!" He had reached her then, grabbing her with his free hand, tucking the other just out of her reach again. Sansa was growing tired of this game he seemed intent on playing with her. "Now," he huffed, stooping to pick up the helm, his face nearly brushing her skirts, which were all that stood between him and her most intimate places. She felt feverish; she turned it to conviction.

Once he straightened she looked up into his eyes doubtingly with mounting dread. A thought occurred to her as his eyes met hers with similar inquisition.  _He can't...he has to realize..._ but he was regarding her curiously, otherwise unmoved.

" _Can I just have my smallclothes back please!?"_  She finally hissed when she could take no more, squeezing her eyes together and holding out her palm expectantly.

He didn't move.

"Oh!— _hells_ , Sandor, don't make me beg!" She opened her eyes to glare up at him, finding his mouth agape and burns twitching horribly, his eyes bereft of all but his own horror as he stared down at her in disbelief for a long moment before breaking his stare and dropping the garment into her waiting hand listlessly.

" _Thank you,_ " she ground out through gritted teeth as she snatched them down from the air, spinning on her heel to stomp behind his courser to dress, yanking the garment up around her waist before rounding back to his side of the horse to glare at him as she made her way back to camp. To her delight, Stranger followed on her heels, leaving his master gaping in the sand.

She was seated comfortably back beneath their leafy shelter, breaking her fast on one of the rose-and-green skinned fruits she had discovered the day before, before he rounded to return to her. She had never seen him so bashful, sitting as far from her as possible and avoiding her gaze, watching him as he approached and landed in the camp. It was all she could do to keep from laughing at him; she offered him a bite of her fruit as a truce.

He shied away from it.

 _That must have been where he went this morning,_  she realised, scooping another bite off the fruit with her teeth,  _back to that tree, to get me more of these. Gods, he must have had to climb it..._ And instantly she felt bad for making him feel so ashamed, even though it was really his fault in the first place for holding on to her smallclothes for so long.

"Thank you for the fruit," she said, licking the dripping juice off her fingers before feeding the pit to Stranger, who took it almost gingerly from her palm.

"Don't mention it," he rasped, jarred from his thoughts. And then, "good you found the helm. We can hold water in it, if we find any."

 _Is that an apology?_ She wondered.  _Probably the closest thing I'm going to get, anyway._

"Are we still going into the forest today?"

"Reckon we should. Might be game in there," he said, lumbering to a standing position before offering his hand to help her up. "Would you like a hot meal, little bird?"

She found herself licking her lips and nodding, suddenly aware of a dull hunger in her, despite the fruit.

"Right then. We'll see what there is to kill, and if it suits us, I'll kill it for you." He was looking at her earnestly, meeting her eyes for the first time since returning to camp.  _No,_ she thought,  _ **this**_ _is his apology._  She smiled for him and curtsied.

"Thank you, my lord."

He nodded once, and gave her instructions to help him break camp.

The sun was hot and high by the time camp was broken, a sheen of perspiration slick on both of their skins. She was making an effort not to complain, holding her tongue against comments on the heat or the painful twisting and bunching of the skin on her shoulders. When it came time to mount Stranger, though, and she raised her arms to help Sandor in lifting her, she hissed, crying out, before dropping her arms.

"What's the matter, girl?" She told him, and he ducked a hand around to pull her hair off her neck gently, humming disapprovingly as he pressed a fingertip into her bared flesh for a moment. "You've gotten some sun, true enough, but you're sure it's no deeper than your skin?"

"I am," she affirmed. "Is there anything we can do about it? Will it come off when I bathe?"

He chuckled lowly as he lifted her onto the back of the horse, effortlessly, it seemed, even without her assistance. "No, you can't wash it off. But if we're lucky I'll find an herb we can rub on it that will make it feel better."

Then, with impressive agility for a man his size, he sprung up onto the horse behind her, pulling her waist back against him, one arm staying there to brace her as he slapped Stranger's backside with the flat of his palm.

"Might want to hold onto his mane girl. Don't worry, you won't fall."

"I've never ridden bareback before," she chirped.

"I know, little bird. You've told me at least half a dozen times," he said disdainfully, but then more softly, "I won't let you fall; I've got you," and then, to reassure her, squeezed her to his chest, still bare and so warm.

And with that Stranger started to make his way into the dark jungle beyond, air all thick with the scent of fauna and sea rain. Rustlings off to their right and left made her jumpy, but every time she started his arm came tighter and tighter around her, securing her to him, assuring and solid. Slowly, slowly, she started to calm.  _No one will hurt you again, or I'll_ _ **kill**_ _them._  There was no safer place to be but here, tucked into his arm.

She laid her head back against his shoulder, adjusting it several times when she felt him stiffen beneath her, presumably in discomfort. The jungle was frightening in its exoticism, yet when she cast aside her fear on the grounds of the man behind her she was able to appreciate the otherworldly, magnificent beauty of the place. The leaves on the trees here were waxy and wide and  _large,_  some as big as her face or bigger, even, drooping heavily off the branches they clung to, and greener than she'd ever seen, even in the warmest springs in Winterfell's glass gardens. And their trunks were skinny, twisting, branches growing upwards as if embroiled in a dance, some playing home to broad-winged butterflies that shone in the glints of green-dappled sunlight like the panes of coloured glass in the Great Sept of Baelor. And the trilling calls of birds on the air, a chorus of life—she caught sight of a few, coloured bright like the butterflies, with feathers of blue and green and yellow and crimson, and she could not help but think of that strange Summer Islander Prince, Jalabar Xho, with his fantastic coloured-feathered cloak.

"Do you think we're in the Summer Isles?" she asked him.

"How would I know where we are? I'm no sailor, I can't read the stars."

"No, I mean—look!" she pointed at one roosting nearby, revealed as they passed under a low-hanging branch that made Sandor loom over her as they ducked in tandem. "Didn't that Summer Prince have a coat of feathers that looked like that?"

"I'll be damned," he said, his voice either genuinely awed or dripping with spite—she couldn't quite tell. "It's a one of those pretty talking birds I was telling you about, little bird!" he patted her arm roughly, jostling her on the bare back of the horse. "We've found your kin!" and let out a rasping peal of laughter, deep and loud and swallowed by the forest around them.

 _Spite then...Gods, but he can be rude._  She frowned, crossing her arms and waiting for him to finish, growing impatient as he doubled over to her side, still laughing at his joke.

"You're being unkind again."

"Oh, come off it little bird, it's just a little joke! You haven't seemed to mind it this year or so past!"

She had nothing to say to that. "Let's just keep going."

"What's gotten into you?"

"Can we just go?! I think I hear a stream nearby. We were looking for water, weren't we?"

"A stream? I didn't hear a stream?"

"Then what's that tinkling?"

"..."

"..."

"...that's not water, little bird," he said lowly, folding himself over her body to take Stranger's mane in his hands, clucking his tongue impatiently and trying to turn the horse around.

"Where are we go—"

" _Shh!_ " Sandor hissed. "Come on, get  _moving_ , you lazy good for nothing—" he kicked Stranger several times with increasing urgency.

And then—her heart leapt into her throat—they broke through the trees, slowly and tentatively, ten ebon-skinned men wearing minimal covering and brightly-coloured plumage and little bronze disks in ornament, the whites of their eyes in shocking contrast to their complexions. Each held a weapon—tall curving amber bows with quivers of brightly-fletched arrows, spears with wide flat heads, blades hewn from rock—and terrible expressions, unreadable stone fury, each one of them more frightening than the last.

 _Sandor's a better fighter than all of them,_  she thought feverishly,  _he will protect me. Protect_ _ **us**_ _._

He hauled her hard against his chest, pulling his dirk out from its sheath and holding it out threateningly; it glinted in a little shaft of sunlight, bright and strong and true. As he leaned over her a curtain of his hair brushed her shoulder and cheek, holding strong his scent and cloaking her in it, reassuring her of his strength. Stranger began to shy, turning in a circle and finding them surrounded.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. His voice rumbled deep in his chest against her back as he whispered to himself, low so only she could hear.

"... _Fuck._ "


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis a Loqui chapter.

There was no way out. They were completely surrounded. There was no possible way they could escape.

Stranger began to rear onto his back legs, his lips peeled back from his teeth. Sansa dug her fingers into his thighs in fear, though his free arm held her against him in an iron grip. The Hound pinched into his courser’s sides with his heels to keep the horse from rearing any further. He might have had a chance at staying on, but he couldn’t risk Sansa falling off, especially given that they had no saddle or reins to hold on to. Fuck.

Stranger wheeled from left to right, seeking an opening that did not exist. Damn him for not taking the time to whittle a lance! At least he would have had a chance at breaking their line and fleeing. Instead, they were stuck, and he with no armor but for his helm and only a dirk for protection.

The warriors tightened their circle, shoving their stone-tipped spears even closer to Stranger’s flesh. “Sandor…” the little bird whispered.

He thought hard as he jabbed Stranger’s sides again. Jalabar Xho had taught him a few things in his native tongue while Robert was still alive. His mind raced for the words, any words. He couldn’t be sure that they were indeed in the Summer Isles, but there was the possibility that the warriors would understand regardless.

The Hound shouted what sounded like a garble of consonants that rang through the open muzzle of his dog’s-head helm, brandishing his dirk as he did so. The ebon warriors flinched, and he repeated the line, in the hopes that they would retreat. They defied his hopes, and then did the unexpected.

They lowered their spears and exploded with laughter.

They roared while hunching over, one clutching his heaving stomach as another leaned against him with tears springing from the corners of his eyes. Another man slapped at his exposed thigh and repeated Sandor’s words in between guffaws, his voice taking on an affected boom that was obviously supposed to mock the Hound’s deep timbre. The mummery only served to increase the warriors’ howls.

The little bird tightened her grip, the tips of her fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh. “What’s going on?” Her voice quavered with confusion.

“I don’t know…” he growled.

One of the warriors stepped forward, just outside of the range of Stranger’s front hooves, when the laughter had died down and the spears were lowered. The man was a head taller than his companions, though no less dark in complexion. The wrinkles at the corners of his wide, toothy grin suggested he spent far more time smiling than scowling. A multitude of pale scars along his bare arms and chest spoke a completely different story, however. He planted the butt of his spear in the ground. His confident stance and comparative abundance of bronze accessories led Sandor to believe that he was the leader of the squad. “Westerosi!” the man called in a richly warm voice. “Your accent’s not bad! What you think you said, just now?”

“ ‘Bugger off and die, you whoresons’?”

“Haha, no! You said ‘my face is ugly but my cock is hard’!” The man’s face turned serious. “Put down the knife, Westerosi. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“Over my dead body,” he snarled.

“There’s n—” the man was cut off by the jabbering of one of his companions.

The man snapped back, at which point the other warrior recited a series of melodic lines while pointing from Sandor, to Sansa, to Stranger. A collective gasp rose from the throats of the warriors. The first man’s eyes widened. One of the warriors at their left side started chanting and raised his free hand, palm up, towards the sky, with two more joining him shortly. Another edged in close to Stranger’s hind end, his hand poised to touch the stallion’s flank. Stranger snorted and kicked at the man, who jumped back in time to catch the tips of his fingers on a hoof. He yowled in pain while the other men laughed at him.

 “Hoi!” the man versed in the Common Tongue shouted.

The warriors raised their spears out of an overtly aggressive stance. “You come, Westerosi.”

“And if I say no?”

 “A question for a question,” the man grinned. “ ‘It look like you have much of a choice?”

The spearmen were too numerous, and he was far too inadequately armed. He tightened his grip on his dirk until his knuckles were white. Another failure to add to his ever-growing list. “It’s okay Sandor, I don’t think they’ll hurt us,” Sansa whispered. “Please…”

The Hound tucked the dirk into his belt. “Fine.”

The leader’s smile widened. “Funny and smart. Good qualities in a man!”

They proceeded through the shadowed jungle at a brisk walk. He marveled at the sureness of the islanders’ gait, given that they were barefooted and tramping over roots that were giving Stranger trouble with relative ease. Beyond that, their movements were silent, but for the soft jingling of the bronze discs they used for ornamentation and the occasional whisper of feathers. At first, Sandor had thought the cloaks to be impractical camouflage, given that over-bright plumage was a death sentence to most wild birds in his experience; now he could see that the feathers blended in with the radiant and varied coloration of the tropical flowers that seemed to bloom everywhere.

 The warriors chatted amongst each other, their banter interspersed with genuine laughter, though they never broke the circular formation around their prisoners. Sandor gritted his teeth at the thought. He should have anticipated this. It was foolish of him to assume that they would be the ones to find any other inhabitants, instead of the other way around. Now they were caught, marching towards gods-knew what kind of situation. Scenarios ran through his head, each more terrible than the last, all resulting in him being killed and the little bird raped or enslaved or both. His arm tightened around her reflexively. He would be damned he allowed that to happen; they had yet to take away his weapon. He could give her mercy first, before they took her. Better that she die by his hand, innocent and unbroken, than be subjugated to that kind of humiliation. But could he do it—?

“Ho, Westerosi!” the leader’s jovial tone broke through his dark thoughts. “Who taught you how to say that?”

“One of your damned princes. Jalabar Xho.”

“He still alive?”

“Last I saw.”

“Ha ha! The king will want to hear of this. Jalabar is related to him.”

“I couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass.”

The man continued anyway. “My king’s cousin’s, aunt’s, good-brother’s niece was his mother. It’s a shame he was driven out, but Jurakan does as he will.”

“Is Jurakan a lord, ser?” Sansa asked, her tone courtesy and light as befitting a gently born lady.

“Jurakan is a god of the Summer Isles,” he beamed at her. “He is Master of Storm and Gale, the Great Destroyer, King of the Reefs.”

“And pray, ser, what might we call you?”

“I am Mahinja Do,” he made a small, mocking bow towards her.

“A pleasure to meet you, ser,” she nodded her head in return.

“Such a beautiful woman must have an equally beautiful name, no?”

He had had enough. “How much further to your bloody village?”

“Not long now, Westerosi. Look.” Mahinja gestured with the stone tip of his spear.

The two warriors making up the vanguard had pulled back a flurry of palm fronds to reveal a large, man-made clearing. Within that clearing laid a sprawling settlement of thatched huts surrounding a trio of squat pyramids with multiple plateaus. A din of human voices and song floated out towards them, in odd harmony with the sound of the jungle behind. “How the fuck did we miss that?” he said under his breath.

Stranger whickered and stamped his foot. “I don’t know, my lord,” Sansa whispered back. “Maybe the storm?”

“Aye. You’re probably right.”

“Come, Westerosi. The king’s waiting,” Mahinja Do urged.

 

* * *

 

 

They strode through throngs of feather-cloaked people milling around the dirt streets. Women balanced woven baskets, filled with fruit and fish, on their shoulders while talking with their neighbors, gesturing animatedly with their free hands. Some shouted streams of their flowing, summer tongue to the warriors, who responded with equal fervor. Packs of children swarmed in and out, kicking around balls of some foreign substance that bounced off the hard-packed earth. His flesh crawled as he noticed more than a few people staring at them openly. Sansa pressed a hand to his forearm, making him realize that he had been holding her too tight. “It’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” he rasped.

“If they wanted to kill us they would’ve done so already,” she murmured in return.

“It’s not death I’m worried about.”

“Oh.”

Stranger blanched at the foot of a great staircase leading up the largest of the three pyramids. “It’s not that steep, boy,” he coaxed the stallion forward.

Luckily, the steps were deep and at a shallow incline; beyond his initial reluctance, Stranger had no problems navigating up the pyramid. Sandor counted fifty steps before they reached the first plateau. He slid off of Stranger’s back. If it came to it, he could set the courser to fleeing and buy them some time. Stranger would be able to run much faster without his weight and the little bird knew that there was edible fruit out there. He tried his best to ignore a voice shouting in the back of his head, screaming that even if she did escape, it would only be a matter of time before she was recaptured, that they were on foreign turf and she was unused to surviving off the land. He tried, and failed. A ball of cold reality settled in his gut. It would come to giving her mercy or the infinitely small chance of escaping. Fuck.

All of the warriors but Mahinja and (he assumed) his second-in-command had dispersed. “This way, Westerosi.”

He led them down a large passage lit with torches that connected with a large, square chamber with a vaulted ceiling. Long swathes of jewel-toned silks decorated the walls. A double line of spotted pelts marked a path that ran up to the foot of a rough-hewn throne. Upon the throne sat an overweight man with skin just a few shades lighter than Mahinja Do’s. He wore an elaborate headdress, decorated with the tail feathers of several birds— many of which the Hound did not recognize— and clad with bronze gauntlets and shin guards. His feathered cloak spilled over the arms of the throne and nearly touched the floor.

Mahinja kneeled before the king and spoke a long greeting in respectful tones. The king, in turn, replied with a sonorous voice, his tone questioning and amused. Sandor did not like the intelligent gleam in the man’s eyes as he looked at them. The Hound bristled and moved his free arm slowly to rest at his side, just a heartbeat away from the dirk’s hilt. He made his choice.

“Anything happens—” he whispered. “—hold on to Stranger and don’t let go.”

She looked down at him, her expression swimming with disbelief. “I’m not going to leave you here.”

“You’re assuming I’m going to give you a choice.”

“Sandor—”

“Bring them closer,” the king commanded in the Common Tongue.

Mahinja urged them forward. The king smiled down at them. “You are a long way from home, my friends. I am King Mojjo Ko.”

“And I am Lady Sansa of House Stark. This is my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. We were bound for Lys when—”

“Your ship was destroyed in the storm? Yes. It is apparent you did not come from any of the ships in port. Jurakan has delivered you here, to us, for a reason.”

“And what reason would that be?” the Hound snarled.

“The Storm King works in mysterious ways. There is a song that is sung, that has been sung here for many, many years, far before your Aegon landed with his flying serpents. It is said that the Lord of Reefs will mark the time of war with a bloody thumbprint in the sky. His rage will tear the skies asunder and, in his fury, deliver a messenger to his chosen people.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with us.” His words vibrated the teeth on his helmet’s open maw.

Mojjo Ko smiled broadly. “Mahinja, you are far better with poetry than I am. How does that line go?”

“Which, your grace?”

The king recited the same line the warriors had spoken— seemingly about them— with extravagant gesturing.

“Ah,” said Mahinja Do. “I think it’s something like:

 

‘There will come from the Sea,

a Herald in the form of three:

a two-legged Dog, a tattered Flame,

astride the Night Sky from whence they came.’”

 

Sandor gaped. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The king laughed. “I assure you, I am quite serious. How else do you think you survived the Destroyer’s wrath?”

“By bloody swimming!”

“Sandor!”

“It is quite all right, my lady,” Mojjo Ko. “We are a free people, and as free with our tongues as we are with our love. You must stay, as my guests. At least until you have recovered. The sun has not been kind to you.”

“We would be honored, your grace.”

“Mahinja will escort you to the guest quarters. May your skies be clear.”

 

* * *

 

 

They ascended to the second plateau, but halted before the passageway leading back indoors. Mahinja Do looked between Sansa and Stranger, the corner of his mouth contorted with skepticism. “I suggest you get down, lady.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to?” the Hound snarled.

“Then she will scrape off all of that beautiful hair on the ceiling, Westerosi,” he returned. “Though I am sure her scalp is just as lovely!”

“I can make my own decisions, my lords,” Sansa sniffed. “Sandor, could you please?”

He growled and held his arms out to assist her off the stallion. She slid into his embrace easily. His first instinct was to hold her close and savor the way her body conformed to his, but they had an all-too-observant audience. He released her when she demonstrated that her bare feet could find purchase after a day of riding. “What about Stranger?” she asked.

“He’ll follow for now, or will that be a problem?” He directed the unspoken threat towards their guide.

Mahinja let the warning roll off his back. “Your beast will have adequate space, Westerosi. It will take some time for proper quarters to be ready for him.”

“What do you mean, ‘proper quarters’?” Sandor snapped.

“You can’t contain the Night Sky just anywhere,” the warrior chuckled as he led the way back into the pyramid. “Come.”

“He’s not a damned messenger, he’s a black horse covered in bloody sand!” Sandor barked. Mahinja made it apparent he was not listening. “Seven buggering hells…”

They walked down a veritable maze of hallways, Stranger’s horseshoes chiming softly against the stone floor as he followed close behind. “Here we are! Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Mahinja drew back a sheer curtain of fabric from a large doorway, and gestured for them to enter.

The room itself was enormous, given how deceptively small the second tier of the pyramid looked from the outside. Its ceilings were high as well, though not nearly as high as the throne room. A decorative Myrish rug lay in the middle of the room, and was surrounded with pillows of every shape and size. There were tapestries hung on the wall depicting several storms from various climates, though the style of embroidery was obviously from the Seven Kingdoms. A desk of dark, curling wood that could not have been from anywhere but Asshai sat along one wall, and was host to a collection of statuettes including a harpy, a dragon, and a grotesque, winged amalgamation of an octopus and a man. In other corner, space had been cleared and a large area of dried grass had been laid. Sandor led Stranger to the grass and commanded the horse to lie upon it. The stallion was more than happy to comply, and proceeded to munch upon the offered vegetation. Sandor, in turn, removed his helmet and placed it on the desk next to the other grotesqueries.

“My king had this chamber made for the Messengers, as do all of the kings in the Isles. Some are better than others,” Mahinja explained as Sansa gaped at the splendor of it all. “They songs do not say where the Messengers would come from, so my king brought in treasures from all corners of the earth.”

“It is all so lovely. This must have taken a considerable effort,” Sansa ran her fingers along an armchair, whose lap contained two pillows embroidered with sparkling beads in the shape of a winter rose.

“No effort is too great to make the Storm King’s chosen feel at home.”

A chorus of suppressed titters came from outside the doorway. Mahinja Do smirked. “It would seem that your feast has arrived.” He called out in his native language and clapped his hands once. “Please, sit.”

Sansa perched upon a Pentoshi divan. The Hound chose to stand instead, and rested his hands on the divan’s flimsy copper back. “I would have liked to have bathed before eating. I feel filthy,” Sansa murmured.

“You are filthy,” he sneered. “Fuck bathing; I’m starving. Least this king can do is feed us before he goes on spewing his crackpot prophecies.”

Sansa’s retort was lost. A parade of children in loincloths and short feathered capes marched in through the gauzy curtain, each carrying a platter of some kind of food. One child held a bowl heaping with chilled fruit; thick slices of three different kinds of melon, soft ripened dates, clusters of a dark berry he did not recognize, and cubes of the fruit Sansa had taken a liking to. A pair of twins carried each a different fish, baked whole with garnishes of orange peel spiraling comically out of their open mouths. Another child managed to hold two large tureens, each containing a different stew: one was poultry with a noticeable coconut aroma, the other smelt of crab and shellfish. Six children made a double-file line holding an enormous platter with several large, roasted birds nestled in a bed of sweetgrass. The tail feathers, beaks, and feet, had been replaced, making a strangely disturbing, yet artful contrast between the steaming meat and vibrantly colored garnishments.

“Oh goodness, I don’t know where to start, it all looks so good!” Sansa exclaimed.

The children began to clamor amongst themselves in accented Common, each proclaiming that his or her dish was the best and most suited to be eaten first. Mahinja cleared his throat and the cacophony ceased. He glared at each of the children in turn, speaking sharp words to them in their mother tongue while using a deceptively neutral tone. Suitably reprimanded, the children formed a half-circle around the divan and offered each platter to them in turn. Sansa looked confused. “Do I just…?”

Sandor scoffed and reached over her shoulder to the platter of roasted birds. He dug into one of the larger birds and ripped off a hearty chunk of its breast, then popped the searing flesh into his mouth. “When in Valyria…” he jeered around a mouthful of food.

“Do as the Valyrians do,” she finished before digging into the baked fish.

As they ate, the children sang to them. Most of the songs were in the Summer tongue, but a few were in Common and one girl piped a reedy aria in High Valryian. “Sandor, you have to try this— what did you call it, dear?— surf stew.”

“I’m fine with your kin,” he said as he tore a leg off one of the birds.

“You say that like I’m giving you a choice,” she responded sweetly.

“Don’t twist my words, girl.”

She said nothing, but offered him the half-full tureen and a mischievous smile. He took the tureen from her hands and lifted it to his lips. Shreds of crab meat and soft mussels flowed into his mouth, along with the rich, salted sauce in which they were stewed. He moaned at the explosion of flavor in his mouth. “It seems you do have exquisite taste,” Sansa joined the soup bearer in giggling at him. She turned to Mahinja. “Oh, please forgive our rudeness! Will you not join us, good ser?”

The warrior unstrapped the longbow from his back and took a seat on a cluster of pillows. “Don’t worry about me, lady, I broke my fast not long before we discovered you.”

“My lady,” Sandor interjected.

“Hum?” Mahinja raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the proper way to address her. ‘My lady’.”

“But she is not mine.”

“That’s not the point.”

Mahinja Do grinned. “If we danced together, then she could be ‘my lady.’ What say you, Westerosi?”

“You so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll—” the Hound bared his teeth.

“Sandor, it’s only a dance!”

Mahinja laughed. “Ho, an innocent one, yes! I heard that your people were strict with your love, but not to this extent! You could at least be kind and show her a few steps, Westerosi. It wouldn’t be hard… for her, at least.”

In a flash, he had drawn his dirk and stuck the point of its blade against the flesh covering the carotid artery in Mahinja’s neck. The warrior chuckled nervously. “A jest, my friend! Calm yourself! We do not take those who are unwilling.”

“Sandor. Sandor, please. You’re scaring the children.” Sansa pleaded with the young ones clustered around her tattered skirts like frightened ducklings.

He glared into the other man’s eyes before removing the dirk and returning to his place behind Sansa. “You are quick, my friend, as the songs foretold,” Mahinja Do rubbed his neck. “Praise to the Destroyer for sparing my life.”

“What exactly does this prophecy entail, ser?” Sansa asked.

“The Great War will be upon us soon. For generations, the number of kings has increased, while the land has not.”

“Well isn’t this familiar,” the Hound snarled.

“Jurakan is the Great Destroyer, but he is the bringer of life as well. His rains nourish our crops and the reefs are home to the fish that feed our people. His rule is one of balance. But the scale has been tipped and the different kings become arrogant. Mojjo Ko is not that way; he is a good king, a true king. That is why the Lord of Gales has sent you here. To mark his favored people. ‘The People bring to war the Beast, then Death will set her final feast.’ ”

“Horse shit,” Sandor interjected. “That could mean anything. You could bring in elephants from Norvos and it would apply.”

Mahinja smirked. “ ‘The’ Beast, my friend, not ‘a’ Beast. That is a more poetic translation. In the original tongue, it is very specific.”

“And what is this Beast supposed to do? Bring you wine and orgies ‘til the stars fall from the skies?”

“No. The Beast will bring us victory in war,” the man stared at him with an icy glare.

He could almost feel a drop in temperature from the intensity. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He had been stupid to not kill this man when he had the chance.

Mahinja Do let the expression linger just a second more before replacing his mask of amicability. He gathered up his bow and spear before standing. “I will leave you now to settle in. There will be baths and new clothing brought for you shortly, my friends. Come little ones!”

“But the lady said she’d let me braid her hair!” one of the girls whined from Sansa’s lap.

“Later, when she has cleansed herself. If you smother a Flame, it will go out, after all.”

The child stuck her lip out petulantly, but exited with her companions all the same.

“Such sweet things, they are,” Sansa cooed.

“Stupid little bird, getting distracted by pretty children when there is a predator in your nest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you pay any attention to what that bastard said? They’re expecting this Beast figure to fight their battles for them.”

“But they think you’re the two-legged Dog— oh. Oh dear.” Her face fell.

The stillness grew, taut and pregnant with their newly formed trepidations. “What will we do?”

He sighed. “I don’t know yet.”

He wanted to lie to her, to tell her that everything would be fine. But he had denied that same comfort from her when she had offered it; it would be hypocrisy for him to offer the same and expect her to accept it, so he kept his mouth shut. Ever so slowly, Sansa reached up a hand and threaded her fingers with his where they lay on the back of the divan. He hesitated, only long enough to be reminded of their mortality, and reached down to intertwine his other hand with hers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Kashi chapter, guys! TW for mild sexual discomfort--I was working through some shit.

His fingers slipped between hers and she leaned her head back until it came to rest on the warm, hard plane of his stomach.  Both sides of his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth, concentrating.  Her head nodded as he sighed sharply, and turned his face to look down at her.  His expression softened as he met her eyes, blinked slowly and pulled the hand on the divan free to swipe his knuckles against her cheekbone, replacing an unruly lock of hair.  The moment stretched, grew heavy; he sighed again.

“But you _are_ filthy, little bird.  Your maid’s taking her sweet time.”  Her head fell back into thin air as he spun away from her abruptly, leaving her sputtering and pouting, indignant and undignified.

“I’m no filthier than _you_ ,” she muttered to herself, cut in the emotional plane of her heart.  He did not hear her, across the room tending studiously to his horse.

Just then there was a clamor from the hall, and a party of young girls brought in a long, narrow but deep tub of burnished bronze, pretty copper plaits adorning the lip of the tub.  She could smell it before it arrived—perfumed thickly with the sweet scents of the flowers growing pervasively on the island.  The cut Sandor’s comment had made was healed by her giddy anticipation; the bathwater was steaming, covered with a thin layer of soft-looking foam the likes of which Sansa had never seen before.  She dipped her finger in and scraped off a bit of the foam—it was airy and soapy, and made little crackling sounds as she rubbed it between her fingers, dissolving it into a sweet-smelling film on her skin.

“Sandor, come look at this!” Sansa called amid her gawking and thanking.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a bubble bath, little bird,” Sandor rumbled lazily.  Another host of girls came in bearing tall modesty screens that folded out to block the bath setting from the rest of the room, framed in a thick dark wood with panels made from bright Pentoshi silk and Myrish lace.  Proper bewilderment set in as her fingertips brushed the panels— _Myrish lace!  And here I thought I was stranded on some Gods-forsaken…oh, what a comfort, a comfort!  How civilized these people are!  How hospitable!_

The girls had assembled themselves in a company on the open side of the screen, the whites of their eyes shining out from their broad, dark faces, thick-lipped pink smiles greeting her on each.  They looked as though they were waiting for instruction, and just as she was about to give one a taller, older woman clad in jade and ruby silks came sweeping in, barking some words in the flowing summer tongue and shooing the girls back into the hall.  When they were alone, her eyes fell on Sansa and she gave her a warm smile before folding into an awkward, unpracticed curtsey.

“Forgive us, Lady; the girls forgot to bring your choice of dress.”

“Not at all, madam!  I am stunned and delighted by the extent of your hospitality!”  Sansa gushed.  From behind the silk screens, she heard Sandor snort.  “What is your name, if it please you?”

“I am Sarankar Do, here to help the Lady Flame with her bath.  Let me get you out of those rags.”  The woman, taller than Sansa and thin with her hair cropped short like a man’s, stepped forward and began to pluck at the ruined laces of her dress with long, deft fingers.

“Do…Are you related to Ser Mahinja, then, my lady?”

“Mahinja is my little brother, lady.  He gave you no trouble, did he?!”

Sansa opened her mouth to reassure her, but Sandor beat her to it, appearing from around the screen just as Sarankar had managed to open her laces, the maid taking no notice of his appearance (or, at least, not halting her task of making Sansa naked in his presence), much to Sansa’s embarrassment.  She jumped to cover herself as he spoke in his characteristic rasping growl.

“More trouble than I’d like.”

“ _SANDOR!_ ”

Sarankar began to divest her of her shift.

His eyes fell on her nearly naked figure and went wide, lingering for a moment longer than propriety allowed before he ducked back behind the screen, clearing his throat before begging, “sorry, little bird.”

Sarankar raised an eyebrow at Sansa and shook her head as she drew the soiled shift over her head.  Sansa climbed hastily into the tub and submerged all but the tops of her shoulders, eyes glued to the hulking shadow of Sandor’s figure.  Her maid dipped a gnarled but clean-looking yellow sponge into the bathwater, wringing it out and handing it to Sansa.  “You wash between your legs, lady, before the sponge gets dirty.”

She thanked her and blushed, nervous to move with Sandor still so close at hand.

“Are you just going to stand there?” She asked him after a minute when his shadow still hadn’t moved.

“Where else am I supposed to stand!?” He snarled.

“I don’t know, maybe _outside of the room where your lady is bathing?!_ ”

She saw his jaw open a couple of times, but he never said anything.  After a moment he straightened, drew one hand up to shield his view, and darted out into the hallway.

Once he’d disappeared and the echo of his steps quieted, he called with an angry rasp, “happy?!”

“Yes,” Sansa said haughtily, sighing to herself and leaning back as Sarankar tilted her hair into the water, long fingers working through its tangled mess, teasing out the knots.

“Your hair is very beautiful and soft, lady.”

“Thank you,” Sansa gushed.

“You are flowered?”  The woman asked, submerged to her elbows in the bathwater, smiling matronly down at her.

 _That’s a bit personal,_ she thought, swallowing and wetting her lips.  “Only just.”

“But I judge from your shyness you have never loved?”

She thought of Ser Loras, and then, with a wave of nausea, of Joffrey, but then she realized what Sarankar must have meant by “love.”  Sansa blushed; the woman smiled at her knowingly.

“I thought not.  You poor Westerosi women.  We are told that your men know nothing of a woman’s pleasure, that your whores and your wives lay back and have a nap when you couple.”

She could feel her heart hammering in her chest with embarrassment, but a little treacherous excitement too.  “I wouldn’t know, my lady.  I didn’t know women could have pleasure in…” but she had to stop, her tongue suddenly thick in her shyness.

“Your mother never taught you?” There was a flicker of amusement in the woman’s dark eyes.

Sansa bit her lip and shook her head.  “She only said it was my duty as a wife, and that I must be fruitful and bear my husband many sons.”

“And daughters,” Sarankar corrected.  “That’s the trouble with Westerosi, you put too much importance on the men.  But man needs woman.  Just as Jurakan needs Atabe to make the Islands and the People of Summer.  Lean forward, lady.”

Sansa hissed as the rough sponge scraped across the tender skin of her shoulders, and Sarankar immediately withdrew, pressed a fingertip into the skin and tutted.  “Your skin is burnt badly, lady.  Who knew the Tattered Flame could be burnt?”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m the tattered flame,” she said, and Sarankar laughed loud and well, dipping the sponge back into the bath and wringing it out before dabbing it delicately across her shoulders.

“You are funny, lady.  I will have my girls bring up a paste to put on your skin.”

A young, smiling maid brought up three bolts of bright orange and red cloth, gave a lumbering curtsey, and dashed back out.

“Is that my gown?”  It didn’t look like a gown.

“Yes, lady.  I will help you dress, don’t look so frightened.”

“Pardon me, my lady.  I am just so unfamiliar…I must admit, my Maester did not educate me in the ways of the Summer Islanders.”

“What is it you want to know, lady?”

“Well…” Sansa had a hard time asking this, but she needed to know.  _And better to hear it from a woman than that Mahinja fellow, as nice as he was._   “I’d like to know what your people believe about… _coupling._   And what will be…expected of me.”

She heard Sandor snarl something from the hallway, but Sarankar just laughed.

“Nothing will be expected of you, child.  A girl does not become a woman until she chooses.  And she chooses when she knows she is ready.”

That gave Sansa pause.  In her culture, she’d had no control over her first flowering, had indeed lived in fear of it, as it would bring about her marriage with Joffrey.  _But not anymore. Sandor got me out of that._

“But how does a woman choose to become a woman?”

“Well—sit back child, give me your feet—when she feels it in her heart and she chooses a man she can trust, she becomes a woman when they first make love,” the woman explained soundly, scrubbing the filth off of Sansa’s right foot.  “It is a cause for celebration among my people.  There is a feast and a dance to give praise to the Gods, and then the girl goes into the temple with her chosen and comes back a woman.”

“Does she not marry her chosen…partner, first?”

Sarankar shook her head.  “We do not marry until we are sure of the endurance of the union.  Most people couple with each other many, many times over the course of years before deciding to marry.  And some of my people never marry.”

“Never marry?!”

“Never.  My brother has daughters nearly old enough to be women soon, and he has never married.”

“So are his daughters all bastards?” she thought of Jon, and then how much shame he brought on her mother.  “Forgive me if I give offense.”

“You do not, lady.  There is no shame in love among my people; it is only right that all children are born of love.”

Sansa thought about that.  _Mother said she did not love father when she bore him Robb…poor Robb._

“Marriage is not important because everyone takes care of everyone—we are all family, if you look back and back and back.  We all come from Jurakan and Atabe; we are all children born of their love.”

“I’ve heard of Jurakan,” Sansa said as Sarankar beckoned her up from the tub and wrapped in her in a fluffy cloth to dry her.  “But not Atabe.  Who is she?”

“She is the Goddess.  She gives us land, trees and fruit where Jurakan gives us sea, rain and fish.  She is the moon when Jurakan is the sun.  She gives us the gift of life and regeneration where Jurakan is death and destruction.”

“But…” Sansa pouted, confused.  “I thought you all _liked_ Jurakan—that was my impression, anyway, so far—but he’s the God of death!”

“Both the Gods reign over death, child, and both reign over life.  They are day and night; we could not have one without the other. ”

“Oh,” Sansa blinked, feeling stupid.  Of course that made sense. 

“In fact, it is Atabe we call ‘Lady Death.’  Jurakan gives her the souls of his dead to appease her, after he has done something to displease her and she withholds coupling.”

 _She sounds like a willful wife,_ Sansa thought warily, before chiding herself for being close-minded.  “Jurakan must love her very much to give her such gifts.”

“We all aspire to have a love like the Gods…” Sarankar said wistfully, winding a gauzy pale yellow cloth around Sansa’s middle, covering her breasts and her backside.  She fell silent for a minute, wrapping and tucking, but Sansa’s curiosity was not yet sated.  She prompted her.

“But anyway.  You were saying how your people are all descendents of Jurakan and the Goddess?”

“Yes,” Sarankar said, picking up a bolt of heavier yellow cloth and beginning to drape it around her.  “Jurakan first noticed Atabe walking alone on the Great Island, Walano, and fell in love with her the moment he saw her.  He made himself a body so he could touch her and give her pleasure, and when he revealed himself to her she fell in love with him at her first sight of him too.  So they coupled there on the beach, but because he did not want to impregnate the Goddess, Jurakan pulled out and spent his seed in the sea and created the Islands of Summer.”  A second bolt of silk joined the first, this one falling only to her knee, a rich burnished orange.

“Delighted that he had given her more land to walk upon, Atabe allowed him to spend inside her next time they coupled, and the seed that ran down her legs caught in a gale of wind and became the birds and fish,” Sarankar continued, guiding her back to the divan and draping a long, narrow, deep red silk over Sansa’s neck, folding it over her breasts in a crisscross and wrapping it several times below her breasts to hold it.  Fixing the cloth with a bronze jeweled pin (where her skirts were fixed with simple knots) she continued to speak.  “The seed that did not drip out quickened and became the first human, the first Child of Summer, from whom we all descend.”

“That’s fascinating,” Sansa said, running her fingers over the pin.

“It is as it is,” Sarankar shrugged, moving on to retrieve a comb and begin dressing Sansa’s hair.  “But the story is not finished.  This first human was red, as we all are when we are born, but Atabe, in her rapturous passion for Jurakan, laid her child out in the sun to sleep while she went to make love with her man.  Twelve days they coupled, and when she returned, sated, to where she’d laid her child, her child was grown, and burned black by the sun.

“Atabe was deeply humiliated by her neglect, so she gave her child knowledge of how to make a libation from sugarcane to lift its spirits—we call it rum, you Westerosi call it Amber Sweet—and divided the night from the day, and the moon from the sun to govern it, to give her child time to recover from its burns, and to make sure such harm never came to him again.  Hand me that pin, lady; yes, that one.

“It was not long before her child complained to Atabe of loneliness, and so she let Jurakan’s seed quicken again and gave birth to another child.  To celebrate the birth, her first child made enough rum for even the Gods to get drunk on, and again Atabe laid her newborn out to nap and coupled with her man again for twelve days and twelve nights, and then fell asleep for twelve more, finding the child burnt black as the first when she awoke.

“When she finally managed the courage to face her children again, they were not upset that they had been burnt—it kept the sun from hurting them, they said—but were instead upset that they could not have the same fun that they saw their parents had in coupling.  Jurakan, rising before his mistress, refused them, but Atabe was still humiliated by her neglect of both her children, and so to make amends she granted them genitalia, and they become the first man and the first woman.

“Though he was initially skeptical, Jurakan found he liked letting the humans couple, as looking on during their coupling gives him pleasure, and the children their couplings produced pleased his woman.  To make her feel better about her mistakes with their first two children, Jurakan gave all his children’s children black skin from birth so the wrath of his sun would not harm them.  And that is our story, the story of the Summer People.  That is why we couple to please the Gods, why our skin looks the way it does, why our islands are so spread out like drips of seed after a…well, you wouldn’t know, I suppose.  There is a looking-glass over behind the Night Sky—have a look at your dress, tell me what you think.  Can you move in your skirts?  You must be able to dance, lady.”

Sansa was almost so engrossed in the story that she forgot what was happening to her.  _What queer Gods they have…but lively!  At least their Gods let them have a little fun…_

“Thank you so much for educating me, my lady.  What an incredible story—you are a very gifted storyteller.”

“Please.  I am no lady.  Call me Sarankar,” she said, sweeping to stand beside her, taking her elbow in her arm and leading her to stand before the looking-glass.  Sansa continued to say as many kind things as she could think of before her tongue was stopped short by the sight of herself, clothed in Summer traditional dress.

Though her breasts were covered by the dark red silk, her shoulders were bare, and her midriff was easily visible through the flowing, pale-yellow cloth that she had initially been wrapped in.  Her skirts had two layers—a longer yellow one and a shorter orange one—knotted on her left hip, left daringly open so she could poke her leg out through the fabric if she were so inclined.  It was nearly indecent, her dress, but she allowed that it might not be so indecent to the islanders she would meet in it.  _I must remain vigilant of my modesty, though,_ she thought, sighing internally.  Her hair was simply done, brushed out until it shone, then pinned back at the temples.  _Almost a Northerner’s hairstyle.  How funny._

“Only one last thing you lack, lady,” Sarankar told her, floating over to a vase by the window and breaking a wide-petaled flower off its stem.  She returned, removed one of Sansa’s pins, then tucked her hair around the flower and replaced it.  “There,” she sighed triumphantly.  “I always wished I could get my flowers to stay tucked behind my ears.  I cannot use pins, I’m afraid.”

They burst into laughter together at that, before Sarankar ushered her back into the corridor and into the main entryway of the pyramid, where Sandor stood waiting, bathed and dressed in tan linen breeches, yet he was still bare-chested, and his affect otherwise unchanged.

“Took you long enough, pretty bird.  Even their buggering King got sick of waiting for you, had his litter take him down a quarter of an hour ago. Did you hear they’re throwing us a bloody feast?”  He sounded twice as angry as he looked.  Sansa fought the urge to sigh.

“I assumed as much; we must be introduced to the islanders, after all,” she said, taking his arm and following Sarankar down the steps.

“’We must be introduced’—listen to you!  Do you think this is some buggering courtly display, little bird?!  They could be planning—”

“Why don’t we just give these people a chance, Sandor?  They’ve been nothing but kind to us since we were discovered.  Can’t you just relax?”

“I wouldn’t be a sworn shield worth my bloody salt if I was able to land in a snake pit like this with my lady and _just relax_.”

Sansa frowned.  “Well then.  I command it of you.”

“You do what now, little bird?!” he snarled, whipping his face to glare down at her as the descended the steps.

“I command you to enjoy this feast.  Eat.  Drink.  Tell war stories, do what you do—I don’t care _what_ you do, so long as you just quit being so…so…”

“ _So…so…_ buggering hells,” he mocked.

“Oh for God’s sakes, Sandor—”

“Alright, alright.  If you command it little bird, I’ll _do what I do_ tonight…bleeding hells…”

They walked the rest of the way to the gathered crowd in silence.

The feast was far more informal than she imagined; indeed, far more informal than any feast she’d ever attended in her past.  The entire village seemed to be gathered in a thick ring about a great bonfire, which she had to ceremoniously light with a long goldenwood branch-made-torch that the King instructed her to thrust straight into the center of the woodpile, going up instantly in a tumble of roaring orange flame as though it had been doused with something, though the people whooped and cheered her name as if it was due to her.

Fish and poultry were brought around in wide, shallow clay bowls, the meat tender and crusted black and brown with a sugary glaze.  There was more chilled fruit to be had, as well as fruit juices, spiked with the Amber Sweet wine that Sandor seemed to have taken to drinking straight from the flagon.

The children of the village seemed especially drawn to her, though some boys were adventurous enough to brave Sandor’s scrutiny.  He paid them no mind, though, and soon enough they too were at Sansa’s knee, clamoring for her attention in broken common that became a sweet, melodious cacophony that nearly brought tears to her eyes.

A tall boy sat down beside her at one point with a sly grin on his wide pink lips.  His cape was long, brushing his calves, and made of yellow, orange, red and pink feathers that all seemed to blend into one another.  It was only then that she realized that Sandor’s seat was temporarily vacated—how many of these Amber Sweet juice drinks had she had, so far?

“When I heard the prophecy growing up as a boy, it said nothing about the Tattered Flame being a woman.  But now it makes sense, I can see it clearly—the Tattered Flame must be hot, hotter than the sun.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, “I’m not that warm, actually, the temperature outside is quite agreeable, and I’m not feeling very feverish.”

The boy laughed—his voice was already deep like a man’s, and his cheekbones were sharp and well-defined—could he be older than he looked?  “In my language, to say a woman is ‘hot’ is the deepest compliment; it means one look at her makes a man run hot with desire.”

“Oh,” Sansa said again, feeling suddenly embarrassed and excited all at once.  “Well.  I’m flattered, then.”

“It is not flattery if it is true, no?”  He smiled, his teeth bright in contrast to his face.  “For example, it is not flattery to say I am the best archer on the island, because it is true.  I am.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, lady,” he nodded.

“Would you show me your archery sometime, ser?”

“It would please me greatly,” he intoned, “but there are other things I could show you that would please me more.  That would please you more than watching me arch.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Sandor snarled at the boy, making him nearly jump out of his skin as he appeared out of nowhere.

For all his prodigious start, jumping nearly a foot in the air at Sandor’s interruption, the boy recovered quickly.  “I am Kiza Ko, son of His Potency Mojja Ko.”

“You’re in my seat, you royal bastard.  Off with you,” Sandor dismissed, waving his hand.

“I was just making conversation with the—”

“I said off with you. Are you bloody deaf?!”

The boy scampered away, duly frightened, and Sandor lumbered down, flagon of the Amber Sweet in hand, where company had so recently been.

“That was unnecessary and unkind,” Sansa spat.

“He was in my seat.”

“You left it unattended.  Where were you, anyway?!”

Sandor only frowned, avoiding her gaze, and continued to nurse the flagon in his hand.  She waved down the next person bearing the rough-hewn coconut shells filled with drink and emptied it quickly.

“Pace yourself, little bird.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”  She hiccupped, ruining her defiant ruse.

“Oh yeah?” he raised his good eyebrow at her.  “Try me.  Go on.  I dare you.”

She was saved the embarrassment of a sputtering reply by another gaggle of children, each carrying a long-stemmed, wide-petalled flower for her.

“They are from the Prince, Flame Lady,” one of the smallest ones said.  Sansa looked up over the heads of the party in attendance and saw Kiza lounging against a tall tree, a casual half-smile writ on his lips.  He gave her a wave, and kept watching her.

She felt herself blushing, and turned her attention to thanking the children.

Just before sundown she started to feel herself reeling with drink, and the young children were swept off to bed while the villagers began playing their queer, primitive instruments and striking up lively dance.  Sandor was—as he was increasingly becoming—nowhere to be found, so no sooner had the first dance begun than she found Kiza smiling before her, offering to show her the steps.

His skin was cool as he stood her up in the twilight, the rest of the villagers making room for the two of them to dance.  Theirs were not the courtly steps of Westeros—indeed, this dancing was unlike any she had ever even observed, nonetheless partaken in—yet she found she could manage well enough the rhythmic stomping and gyrating, individual despite the synchronized movements held together by simple eye contact and the trading of smiles with her partner, though she was slightly hindered by trying to keep both her knees inside her treacherous, albeit beautiful skirt.

That was, until the clearing they occupied began to spin and she found herself careening into Kiza, nearly elbowing him in the ribs as she tripped and tried to fall modestly, failing with a totality that would have upset her more had she any less to drink.  As it was, she caught sight of her naked knee and a few inches of her milky white thigh, looked up to Kiza, who seemed to have caught sight of it too, and let out a trilling peal of laughter, suddenly wondering why she was so afraid of that happening before.

All throughout the feast—or, at least, whenever he could be found—Sandor kept running his gaze up and down her figure, combing over her as if he were sizing up a horse and assessing the price, his lips pressed together, burnt corner atwitch, and his eyes narrowed in some undecipherable expression she seemed to catch him wearing more and more these days. 

Finally beginning to get offended by his scrutiny as they stood with the royal islanders, Kiza among them, to take their leave of the feast, she whispered up at him, “Gods, _what_ are you staring at?!  Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?!”

“Some might say so,” he shrugged.  “You’re no more clothed than a Dornish whore.”

Her chest surged with a tight heat that rose and colored her cheeks.  For a wild moment she had to fight the urge to lash out at him with her arms, spitting and swearing like her sister would have; she corralled her anger, distilled it into venom, brought her spine up straight and set her jaw like Septa Mordane had taught her, and spoke as quickly and quietly a she could manage, staring someplace above his right shoulder.

“If your aim was, and indeed, _is_ , in all things, to offend me, _ser_ , then you ought to be awarded a medal for your efforts; you are so skilled at the sport.”  And she stomped past him and latched onto Kiza’s waiting arm, leaving the Hound to spin, gape, and watch her leave without him, fighting to keep her lips from quivering and tears from forming in the pit of her eye.

It was only a moment before he was jerking her back.

Her bare shoulder made contact with the hot skin of his chest, and his equally hot breath stirred in her hair as he bent over her to rasp, livid, in her ear.

“Don’t you ever stomp off like that again, little bird, or I’ll tie your feet together.”

“And why shouldn’t I?  Why shouldn’t I choose another man as my protector, when you, my sworn shield, clearly don’t give a fig for my well being beyond basic physical safety?” Her voice was cracking, betraying her, and a pair of fat cool tears dripped treacherously, racing down her cheeks and off her chin.  “A lady gets tired of being told she is filthy and ugly and _stupid,”_ she swallowed. 

Only then did she have the courage to flick her eyes up to his, stormy and hateful and more astonished than she would have expected them to be—but her courage only lasted a moment.  She spun, letting her hair put a barrier between her and her sworn shield as she wrested herself easily from his grip.  “ _Ser_ Kiza,” she sniffed, and the young man was on her arm again, the cool smoothness of his wiry ebon limbs a sharp contrast to Sandor’s, “will see me to my room,” she finished dismissively, flicking her eyes back to Sandor’s and then back to her feet.  “I bid you good night, Sandor.”

The prince took slow, graceful steps, his eyes trained on her face as she fought valiantly and won back her composure, leaving her in careful silence.  Only when they were nearly halfway across the clearing did he speak.

“He does not treat you well, lady?”

She took a glance over her shoulder to see if he was following; he seemed to be looking for another flagon of Amber Sweet—what did they call it?—rum.

“He treats me as well as he treats anyone else.”

His voice could be heard echoing off the pyramids—“I’m the two-legged dog, you shit, now give me another gods-damned flagon!”—and Sansa had to fight back the flush of embarrassment she felt of him.

“Is he leastwise a good lover to you, lady?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” she smiled, suddenly shy.  “We don’t…couple before marriage, where we come from.”

He furrowed his brow.  “If he is not your lover, than he has no excuse.”

“To treat me as he does?”

“No!  Well—yes, but I was talking about his…watchfulness over you, lady.  The way he looks at the other men looking at you.”  The prince had moved his hand on her arm to the small of her back, and his other arm was crossed across his body to hold her hands in his.  “It is not fair to claim you for himself if he does not love you in his bed.”

 _He’s got a point,_ she thought drunkenly, though Sansa was distantly wary of the handsome prince holding her close, leading her up the stairs and touching her with a familiarity she realized in some separate-seeming place that he had no right to.  _I’ve been deceived by other handsome princes.  Prince._   But the Amber Sweet in her juice had left her eyes swimming, and her wariness and dignity all seemed remote in contrast to the immediate caress of his soft, cool fingertips.  _And he’s better company than Sandor, that much is certain._

Again in silence and up the gently-sloped steps he led her, to the second tier of the pyramid and through the labyrinthine corridors to her suite, where he paused at the door, cupped her cheeks in his hands, and placed a very gentle kiss on her mouth, at once nothing and everything like the kiss she’d gotten from the last prince she knew.  She let him kiss her—he had been rather kind to her after all, and she was plenty eager to replace her memory of Joffrey’s kiss with a different one—but after he’d been kissing her for a long minute she found herself bored and tired, and, fighting to suppress a yawn, let her lips part just the littlest bit.

The prince jumped at his opportunity, sliding his tongue into her mouth and nudging hers with the tip of it.  She gasped, but that only seemed to encourage him, laying his palms flat against the flare of her hips, his fingers curling, digging into the meat of her backside.  And while it didn’t particularly feel _good,_ it somehow did not occur to her to protest, her thoughts slowed and weakened by the rum she’d drunk at the feast.

His mouth left hers to press kisses along her jaw and neck; nuzzled against her flesh, he asked, “you are woman, yes?”

 _I am a maiden flowered._   “Yes.”

“Good,” the prince answered, and pushed the door to her chambers open, pulling her by her waist inside, her feet suddenly leaden, yet soft like unfired clay.

He resumed possession of her mouth, his thick and cushiony lips guiding hers in a cycle of gaping circles, his tongue swirling around and around hers; it _didn’t_ feel good, she realized distantly, yet could not summon the words or the will to stop him politely.

Her legs came in contact with something—it was her bed, she realized, as she went falling back onto it, her moment of gracelessness freeing her mouth from his.  She took a deep breath that sounded like a gasp, reveling the freedom to do so, a little out of breath.

“I will give you a Lysene kiss, lady—the other young in the village say I am very skilled at it.”

“A…A what?”  She asked, still sputtering, glad to have her breath back, realizing her nose had been crushed against his cheek. 

Did he just pull up her midriff veil?

Were those his lips on her stomach?

Were those his fingers beneath the knot in her skirts?

The Amber Sweet was clouding her worse now than she had felt it before; e knelt before her, disappearing behind the plane of her body, the darkness of his complexion in stark contrast to the whiteness of her thighs.

Hang on.

Wait a second.

What were her _thighs_ doing exposed?!

“Um, Prince Kiza, I—”

“I promise you will like it, lady,” he said, peeling the yellow and orange fabric away from her legs like wilted leaves; all that covered her now was the pale yellow gauzy wrap, the red thatch of her mound easily decipherable through it.

She closed her eyes, willing the cloudiness behind her eyes to dissipate and the appropriate refusal to reveal itself.

But then he was jerked back from her thighs, a little whimpering squeak escaping him before a harsh rasp, like steel on stone, cut the air with titillating familiarity.

“Give me one reason not to kill you _right now_ —and it’d better be a bloody good one.”

She could still feel the drink sticking in her eyes as she opened them to peek; Sandor’s arrival was almost too timely to be true.  He had the prince by the throat in one hand, the point of his dirk over the boy’s heart in the other.

“Please don’t, Sandor, he meant well.”

“He meant _well_ —?!”

“He only meant…to give me pleasure.  Um.  I think.  Please.  Let him go.”

He gave her a long, heated, insistent stare that looked more offended than anything else, before he dropped the boy back to his knees, throwing him behind him and spitting after him in disgust.

“Out with you.  Now.  Don’t let me catch you sniffing around her again.”

Once Kiza had scrambled from the room Sandor’s eyes found hers again, his chest heaving, gaze burning with yet more disgust, a little hatred, but then a little of that indecipherable look he had lately too.  She felt prone beneath his gaze, all but bared to him in the language of shadows and veils, her chest heaving with combined belated fear and relief.  He sheathed his dagger slowly, then took a step forward and knelt where the boy had just been.

“Are you alright, little bird?”

She swallowed.  “I am now.  Thank you.  I didn’t know how to get rid of him.”

The burned half of his mouth twitched again and the other half creased in hatred; he looked over his shoulder at the doorway, and then back to her.  “You didn’t want him to…do what he was going to do.”

“Not particularly,” Sansa said truthfully, rubbing her still-swimming eyes with the heel of her hand. 

He shook his head and sighed, glaring up at her for a moment before bringing his fist down into the dark wood of her bed frame with a suddenness that made her jump.  “Gods-damn me girl, you’ve got no buggering clue what’s good for you, do you?!”

“I’m sorry!  I’m not usually…it’s just…It’s really hard to think right now!  I don’t know what’s come over me!  I’ve never been…like _this_ before!”

“Been like what?!  Naked from the waist down with a man between your knees?  Did you _want_ him to ruin y—”

“ _Drunk!_ ” She shouted, her voice squeaking, tears she didn’t know were coming suddenly spilling from her eyes.  “I’ve never been so…so… _I don’t even know, Sandor!_   I don’t even know!”

He was silent for a moment while she hiccupped on a couple of sobs, belated relief flooding her that he’d removed the prince when he did, that her virtue was saved.

“I…Shit, little bird,” he sighed, spreading his fingers out comfortingly on both her knees, the indecency of it seeming unimportant in that moment.  “We’ll get you sober.  You sleep it off, you hear?”

She nodded, catching him looking down at her exposed thighs, his eyes flicking down to the shadow between her legs momentarily, and she watched him swallow, the hard triangle in his throat bobbing up and down.   He returned his eyes to hers as he bent to pick her skirts up from the floor, folding them back over her legs reverently before resting his palm on her covered knee, patting her with a sigh.

“You weren’t filthy, before,” he said, clearing his throat, beginning to bring himself up to a standing position.  “You’re not stupid.  Naïve, alright, but not stupid.”  He paced backwards towards the door, catching her eye again as he leant against the doorway.  “And you’re not ugly, little bird.  Not ever.  You hear me?”

She nodded.

He nodded.

“Sleep tight, little bird.”

“Okay.  I will,” she swallowed, watching him leave.

“If you so much as hear footsteps, give me a scream.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I promise I will.”

He held the doorway with a big hand as he paused in it, looking at her, and sighed, shaking his head.

“The fuck do I think I’m doing…I can’t leave you alone, after that.”

“No, no, Sandor, really.  Get some rest.”

“Hush, bird.  Give me a minute to wash up.  I’ll be back.  You get…decent.”

Once he was gone from the doorway she stood and staggered to the curving teak armoire, throwing open the drawers in search of something like a nightgown.  She found a shift made of ivory silk and myrish lace; it would have to do.  She brushed out her hair and washed her face and mouth, then slipped into bed, listening for Sandor’s footfalls on the stone of the corridor without.

When he returned not ten minutes later, in the same linen breeches he’d been given to wear, dirk in one hand and clay flagon of Amber Sweet, he took a seat on the cushioned bench at the foot of her bed in total silence, breaking it only with the slosh of the liquid in the flagon as he brought it to his lips, and the sharp hiss or grunt that followed the swishing.

After three minutes or so she could take it no longer. “Sandor?”

“Quit your chirping and go to sleep, little bird.”

“But…you won’t get any rest down there.  You need a bed.”

Swish, glug, hiss.  “Who says?”

She heard another swish.  “I do.”

Glug, glug, grunt.  “What would you have of me, then?”  He looked over his shoulder to face her, his scars twisted in the moonlight into a mask black and terrible.

“You could sleep up here with me.”  He broke into a rasping laugh, shaking his head and tipping the flagon back deep.  “There’s plenty of bed for both of us to share.”

Grunting and pulling the flagon back no more than an inch from his lips, he rasped mockingly “what would people say?”

“Nothing they aren’t saying already.”

He was silent; she watched the triangle in his throat move, his skin blue in the moonlight, as he swallowed and swallowed.  “It’s not a good idea,” he sputtered, pulling the flagon away and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.  “I’m supposed to be protecting you.  How can I do that when I’m asleep?”

“Nobody would bother me if they saw you…” _in my bed,_ she thought, but she couldn’t say that.  “…up here.  With me…”

“Just go to sleep, little bird.  No one’s gonna hurt you.”

“I insist.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that, lately,” he growled, yet seemed to think about it for a long time, fixing his gaze on the wall until he finally stood and paced around to the empty side of the bed, peeling back the sheets before lowering himself onto the pillow.  “Fine.  But you stay on your side.”

“Okay.  I will.”

“Now will you go to bloody sleep already?”

“I will.”

“Good.  I’ve had enough of you peeping at me.”

“…”

“…”

“…Sandor?”

“Fucking hell, _what?!_ ”

“What was he going to do to me?  The prince, I mean, earlier.”  She turned over, found him looking at her.  The burned corner of his lip twitched as he sighed, reached out and laid his hand heavily on her shoulder.

 “I’ll tell you another time.  Hell, little bird, maybe I’ll even show you.  Now please, woman.  I’m drunker than you and just as tired.”

She turned over, and his hand fell from her shoulder to resting heavily on her waist.  The silence held for a moment, suddenly a frightful thing.

“One more thing?”

“One more thing?” he sighed back in a growl.

“Thanks for…I’m sorry I got cross with you earlier…I’m glad you’re here with me.  That you didn’t die in the storm.  I’m glad it’s you and not someone else.”

His hand curled around her waist to spread out on her stomach, tugging her back towards him just slightly.  He sighed, almost whimpering, and she felt a stirring in her hair, laid out on the pillow—his fingers?—that felt very, very nice.

“…little bird…” he groaned, and then sighed.  “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loqui chapter. Warning for sexual content.

The Hound floated on the edge of consciousness. He refused to open his eyes, though the morning light had turned the insides of his eyelids into blood-colored membranes. He burrowed deeper into the cotton sheets with the hope that the comforting heat would eventually guide him back into slumber. In spite of his efforts to fall back into his previous state of oblivion, silhouetted images from the previous night pranced across a fleshy stage.

Bright, wide smiles had surrounded them from all of the people, as villager and highborn alike celebrated together. Iridescent feathers gleamed in the dual light of the sunset and the raging bonfire that he had kept far away from. Between the melodious chatter and the multitude of  feathered capes, Sandor had felt as if he were in the middle of a flock of sentient birds, rather than at a feast. The experience had been radically different from any feast he had been at before. In Kings Landing, no woman had ever marched up to him, looked him in the eye, and clearly expressed an interest in fucking him, let alone three. At once.

They were heavy breasted and wide hipped, with darkly mischievous eyes. “It is said you are the Two-Legged Dog,” the boldest of the three said, her lips curled with amusement. “We would be honored to show you how to bury a bone in the Summer way.”

Behind her, the other two stared at him suggestively while stroking each other’s silk-covered curves. He had considered their offer, but seeing that sniveling bastard by his little bird’s side had driven him away from the opportunity to relieve his need. The morning before they were discovered, he had extricated himself from Sansa’s embrace and left for the jungle to slake his desire with his hand. It had not been enough, however, especially in light of her continuing closeness and the sighting of her smallclothes on the beach.

His cock had throbbed as he chased away Kiza Ko, his ire at having to deny his want only enhanced by the possibility of his little bird being subjected to the dangerous attentions of another prince. The three women leered at him from across the bonfire, the bold one beckoning to him as Sansa defied his advice to slow her consumption of the rum-laced juice. He left her side, half out of spite, half on the counsel of the second (and dominant) brain in his breeches.

The women guided him to the edge of the feast and into a thatched-roof hut. He allowed himself to be pushed onto a large bedroll covered in a thin cotton blanket. The three women play-fought over who would unlace his breeches before the bold one shoved her companions away, and began freeing the laces with her teeth. A low chuckle rumbled in her throat and vibrated against his cock. He hissed from the surge of pleasure, though he wished her voice belonged to another. One of the other women, who decorated herself in green feathers and silks, helped her bold companion yank his breeches down to his knees.

The remaining woman, dressed in yellow, thrust herself between the two and lowered her thick lips onto the head of his cock. He suppressed a groan as she teased her hot mouth down his shaft, swallowing his length down down down until her breath tickled against the base. She pulled up, the barest edge of her teeth brushing against the sensitive knot of flesh beneath his head before she soothed away the pleasure-pain with her tongue and swallowed him down again. He imagined, just for a moment, that her eyes were deep blue and her feathered braids were red instead of jetty black.

Green came up behind Yellow and straddled her back legs. She palmed Yellow's teats in her hands, rolling her dun nipples between her fingers, and causing Yellow to squeal around his shaft. He groaned softly, bringing a lascivious grin to Bold's face as she disrobed. "You don't know how to make a dog howl properly, cousin. Let me teach you," she kneeled beside Yellow.

Yellow released his head from her mouth with a flourished lick. Bold tangled her hand in the other woman's braids and pulled her into a deep kiss around the head of his cock. Their tongues intermingled around him, teasing even more blood than he thought possible in his already-throbbing member. He groaned aloud, spreading Bold's grin even further. Green continued to knead one of Yellow's breasts while her other hand started to unwrap the silk knotted around her partner's hips. The bold one yanked down Yellow's head away from his cock and down towards his sac. "Make yourself useful," she commanded as she straddle his hips.

Sandor hissed as she impaled herself with his saliva-slickened member while her companion caressed his testicles with her hand and tongue. Yellow's moans shivered up his balls and to the base of his cock, as Green spread her partner's legs and brought her mouth and fingers to the woman's dripping cunt. Yellow sighed and squealed and shivered as Green fingered her into completion.

The pleasure was too much, watching them fuck each other while fucking him was too much, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he neared his climax. "I want it," Green said, her mouth slathered in Yellow's arousal.

Bold hopped off him with a thick squelching sound. No sooner did he start to snarl than Green latched around his cock with her lips and began to stroke him. Bold rubbed herself while watching Green choke him down. It was all too much. He came hard in Green mouth, marveling within the white haze of his pleasure how enthusiastically she guzzled his seed.

He had almost been tempted to lay there and bask in whatever other pleasures he could find at the hands of three skilled women with few (if any) scruples, but the guilt had started to rise in his throat. Sandor rose from the bed roll, retied his breeches, and returned to the banquet with a heavy conscience.

He had been at war with himself. One side of him felt guilty, as if he had betrayed the little bird’s confidence. Another asserted that he had neither raped nor deceived those women, that they had come to him willing and eager. Besides, it wasn’t as if Sansa had offered herself to relieve his natural urges. And yet, that first side snapped, he should not expect her to. She was not some random woman with loose-morals; she was a Stark of Winterfell, gently born and destined to give herself to some puffed up lordling that would treat her with far more dignity and respect that an old, scarred mongrel such as himself.

He had taken a seat at one of the many banquet tables and gulped down two clay flagons filled to the brim with the islander’s Sweet Amber in succession. He watched Sansa prance about, her cheeks flushed and her lips bowed with that brilliant smile he had seen so rarely when they were at the Red Keep. The silken excuse for a dress she was wearing only served to enhance her ethereal beauty. It infuriated him that he was not the only man to notice.

Fuck them, fuck them all. They didn’t know, they couldn’t know.

They would never know the anguish of being so close to her, to want her so badly and have to endure all of that knowing that one day, she would be passed off to another. He eyed the flat expanse of her belly, shielded with a gauzy yellow material, and imagined it swollen with child— his child. But that was too cruel a dream. More likely he would watch her fall in love with her highly born lord husband and bear his thrice-damned spawn.

He swallowed more of the Sweet Amber when a serving girl passed, trying desperately to ignore the renewed swelling in his breeches and failing miserably. She was too beautiful and he was unworthy.

Against his better judgment, he had left her in the crowd again and sought out another Summer wench to slake his need, and once more, he returned to watch her as he was filled with satiation and self-loathing. So he tried again, and then again, thinking that perhaps between all of the drink and dumping his seed four times, he would be left so exhausted that he would be unable to think.

It was all for naught. He had still wanted her when he returned for the final time. His eyes followed her about as she danced with the damned prince, stumbling with her drunkenness. His own inebriation made him snap at her, say things he didn’t truly mean, call her a whore even though he knew she was anything but.

Not that it mattered in the end. She forgave him after all his ill-tempered remarks, as she always had, and even invited him into her bed, though it was far from the capacity he wished.

He hardened at the thought, his hips jerking forward to push against the warmth of the body lying next to him. Probably some Islander bitch had been too drunk to leave after they finished fucking for the night. He rolled his hips again, hoping that the friction would be enough to wake her for a quick romp before he left to guard Sansa.

The soft form next to him mewled in a voice he recognized all too well. Sandor’s eyes snapped open. The little bird was curled up in his arms, her hands pressed against his collarbone even as her nose was burrowed into the crook of his neck. One of his legs had turned traitor in the night and was slung across her thighs. Not that it would have mattered much, as she had entangled his other, more faithful leg, with her feet. He was trapped, yet again.

Every muscle in his body locked. His head began to throb with a well-accustomed pain he knew to be the beginning of a hangover. Sandor looked around desperately, searching for a way to escape without waking her. He began by pulling back his hips, but even that caused her to stir. A pouting frown crossed her face and she tugged on the strands of hair brushing her fingers.

The Hound resigned himself to his fate. No doubt the Islanders already thought they were sleeping together. Better that they make assumptions and fear risking his displeasure than have them think otherwise and force him to chase away a horde of cunt-struck asses like the rabid dog he was.

Sandor buried himself back into the sheets and fell asleep with the sweet scent of Sansa’s hair in his nose.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke but a few hours later. To his relief, Sansa had rolled over in her sleep and released him from the effort of figuring out how to extricate himself. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The throbbing had not gone away during his rest. He pressed his fingers to his temples in a futile effort to dampen the pain. He would need wine. Or more of that rum. Or anything with pain-killing properties. He had learned early on not to be picky when dealing with wine sickness.

Before he could leave the bed, Sansa’s handmaiden from the previous day entered the room carrying a tray with two clay cups. He struggled to remember her name through the fog. Suh… Sura? Sarar? Fuck it. He knew she was Mahinja’s sister; that was all that mattered.

“Maiden, Mother and Crone…” Sansa whimpered from behind him. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“All actions have their consequences, Lady Flame,” the woman smiled wryly. “Here, drink this. It will help.”

“Thank you, Sarankar,” she replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

Sansa sat up on his side of the bed, and reached out to one of the clay cups. Sandor clapped his hand over the rim. “What is it?” he growled.

“Nothing to concern yourself with. Spring water, guava nectar—”

He allowed Sansa to take the cup, and she swallowed the contents eagerly.

“—a few herbs, and hair of the dog.”

Sansa choked and sputtered. “Dog hair?! You made me drink _dog hair_?!”

Mahinja’s sister chuckled. “Hair of the dog that bit you, lady.”

Sandor sipped at his own cup. “More of that Sweet Amber, stupid bird,” he grinned nastily before finishing off the concoction.

“That doesn’t make any sense. If you get run through with a sword, they don’t put another one back in you,” she said with a sullen frown.

“They will if you don’t want to bleed out,” he shrugged.

“You will find suitable attire laid out for you in your chambers, my lord,” Sarankar said as she took his finished cup.

“ ‘Suitable attire’? Suitable for what?” The hair on the back of his neck rose in suspicion.

“My brother will tell you both as you break your fast,” her dark eyes were shimmering with amusement. “He should be here shortly.”

It was with great reluctance that he left Sansa to head to his own quarters down the hall, though it was probably for the best. Women took care of their own. Sansa would find far more sympathy from Sarankar Do than she would from him, that much was certain.

All his respect for the woman disappeared when he brushed past the gossamer material that separated the bedroom from the antechamber. “There is no fucking way.”

Upon the quilt covering the seemingly comfortable four-post featherbed in the center of the room was an insult to his masculinity. It was one thing if those savages wanted to parade around wearing that… _thing_ , but he was a warrior! The offending garments gave off a merry tinkling sound when he snatched them off the bed, clusters of bronze beads striking each other in what sounded like a cruel mockery of his situation.

He stormed back down the hallway to the little bird’s chamber and burst in, uncaring of her potential state of undress. He was spared (to his secret dismay) the sight of her naked form.

Sansa was seated at an armoire, clad in a short dress with thin straps and geometric patterns across her breasts. The dark skirts ended at her knees and were surmounted by cords of woven grass, studded with black beads. Sarankar Do paused braiding Sansa’s hair away from her face to look at him with thinly veiled amusement. “You did not find the clothes to your liking, my lord?”

The Hound tossed the garments at her bare feet. “Do I look like a bloody maiden to you? Take your skirts and bugger off!”

“Sandor!” Sansa glared at him.

“Ho, Westerosi!” Mahinja Do cried affably as he entered the chambers, his arms laden with trays of food. “It is no wonder you are the Two-Legged Dog; they could probably hear your howling all the way to Walano!”

“Fucking woman trying to get me to wear skirts like I’m some bloody…” His voice trailed off as he realized what the other male was wearing.

Mahinja cocked his head to the side. His upper body was completely bare, but for a pair of leather bracers. The man’s lower body was not much more modest; a loincloth of undyed cotton and a skirt made of a plethora of knee-length sealskin strips sewn to a belt covered in decorative bronze beads were all that preserved his modesty. “Lighten up, Westerosi,” the man smirked. “You won’t want to be covered where we’re going. Eat, please.”

Sansa immediately snatched up a slice of that fruit she had taken a favor to. “Pray, Ser Mahinja, where are we going?”

“The king has granted we faithful Do the privilege of escorting our honored Messengers to the sacred reef,” Mahinja replied dramatically. Sarankar punched him in the arm. “Ow, Saran!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mahi,” The older woman tied off the last of Sansa’s braids and fixed the entire ensemble to the back of her head with a ribbon and a long-stemmed flower. “It is tradition to take honored guests to the reef. We will fish there, and present anything you catch to the people as a sign of Lord Jurakan’s favor.”

“I don’t know how to fish,” Sansa’s brow furrowed with worry. “What if I don’t catch anything?”

“You will learn, lady. The Storm King has seen fit to bring you here. No doubt he will send the fish to the end of your spear as well.”

Sandor chuckled at Sansa’s look of dismay. “Let’s see if you can use those claws of yours, little bird.”

 

* * *

 

 

The once tempestuous sky had almost cleared. Pillars of darks storm clouds lingered on the very edge of the horizon, but were hundreds of miles away. The blue sky above them was marred slightly by streaks of white fluff that broke up the unrepentant sunlight beating down upon them. Bits of blinding light flashed off the crystalline waves, breaking up the underwater paradise below in a kaleidoscope of white sand and multi-colored corals. Schools of tiny silver fish darted around in twitchy movements while strikingly alien anemones of every shape and size swayed with the ocean current. Though the cool waves continued to lap at their bodies, the heat from the afternoon sun kept them from becoming too cold.

Even with the flurry of life beneath the waves, he was struck by the tranquility of it all. His breeches were soaked, though he had rolled them up over his knees, yet he found that he didn’t mind it. The constant chatter of the jungles had turned into a muted undertone to the soft roar of the tide. Even that was starting to blend into his consciousness, like an immersive projection of his own heartbeat.

He focused on a goodly sized fish floating lazily by his calf. With infinite patience, he cocked back his spear arm and aimed. The striped bastard hovered there, its large maw opening and closing as it pushed seawater through its gills. Just as he prepared to release, the fish was frightened away by a high-pitched squeal. “Seven hells,” he snarled as he whipped around.

The little bird was standing on the sand bar that cradled the reef, her spear clasped in both arms. At the tip of the spear, pierced through its neck, was the fattest fish he had ever seen. “Sandor, look!” Her face was split by a broad smile as she pointed excitedly at the red creature flopping helplessly at the end of her spear.

“Hoi, lady! That’s a nice snapper you’ve got!” Mahinja waded towards her with his own catch. “What does that make, three now? Four?”

“Four, ser,” she stared at the dying fish with wonder.

“You’ll have to work harder if you want to catch up, Westerosi,” Mahinja called to him. “I thought dogs were good at hunting.”

“We are. On land.” The Hound seethed. “Bugger it all.” He spat into the sea towards the other man, only to watch his saliva float harmlessly away on the waves.

“Maybe you should work on your own spear techniques instead of giving all the practice to the Lady Flame,” the other man sniggered.

“I’ve never done anything with a spear before,” Sansa lowered her weapon after the red snapper’s thrashing had ceased.

“There are women that have a natural talent for handling spears. Such women are highly prized by my people.”

“But not the men?”

Mahinja Do leered. “If they know how to handle their spears correctly, yes.”

Sandor growled softly. “He goes anywhere near her and I’ll use his balls for bait…”

“She’s doing rather well, isn’t she?” Sarankar Do came to his side and perched upon a large cluster of brain coral, spear laid across her lap.

“She’s a damn prodigy.”

“It seems that Lord Yukahu favors her as well. She is truly blessed.”

“Let me guess, your fish god?” the Hound sneered.

Sarankar shook her head. “He is the god of dance and song, King of the Spear.”

“Does he have a story, my lady?” Sansa piped.

Sarankar laughed. “Yukahu has many stories, but I will tell you of his birth.”

“I should tell it, I am more poetic than you are. King Mojjo has said so,” Mahinja cut in as he pulled the dead snapper off of Sansa’s spear to be tied to his belt with the other fish.

“Age before beauty, Mahi, and I win on both counts,” Sarankar threw back.

“In the early days of our people, there were only two gods, Jurakan and his wife, Lady Death. The world was at peace, for there was no war, no strife. Man coexisted with animal in harmony, for neither had yet to discover the taste of flesh.

“Yukahu willed himself into existence and, seeing the many creatures and men that walked about, decided that he would cause mischief to entertain himself. He touched the fruit as the children carried it back to their villages, and it rotted in the baskets. He touched the men and made their… staffs soft and weak, and their lovers fell into misery. He touched the women in their childbed and caused their labors to be extended tenfold.

“That’s horrible!” Sansa cried.

Sarankar smiled. “Atabe saw this mischief and came to Yukahu. She commanded that he stop for the love of all that existed, but she was young still and had yet to attain the full-fledged wisdom she is known for. Yukahu brought forth streams of tears to roll down his cheeks and bemoaned the loss of his favorite toy. He told Atabe if she could find his rubber ball in the jungle, then he would cease his mischief, and so she began a fruitless search for the sake of her children.”

“Some goddess she is,” Sandor snorted. “Why wouldn’t she just thrash the little bastard?”

“Atabe has a kind heart, Westerosi,” Mahinja retorted. “Good mothers don’t hit their babies.”

He grunted in reply, not wishing to linger on thoughts of his own mother.

Sarankar continued. “Yukahu laughed as he left, and found Jurakan wandering the beaches of Jhala looking for his missing love. A tempest was rolling in, and he wished to embrace his wife in the fury of the storm. From the sea foam on the beach, Yukahu fashioned a likeness of Atabe and called to Jurakan. Blinded by the rain, Jurakan made love to the false form of his love, only discovering the deception after he had spilled his seed.

“From the rage of the ocean and the seed of the Storm King, the goddess of chaos, Guaba, was born. She unleashed her anger upon the people, causing strife wherever her foot fell. The creatures of the world discovered the taste of flesh, and began to eat each other. Mankind was attacked from all sides by the jaguars in the jungles and the sharks in the sea. Brother turned upon brother in the first war of the Summer People.

“Jurakan and Atabe cornered Yukahu, intent on punishing him for bringing the Age of Blood to the world. The young god pleaded for mercy. He stood between the warring peoples, and began to sing. He made the people put down their fists, and instead raise their hands and dance. He taught the Children of Summer how to sing and dance for the glory of the gods.

“Jurakan and Atabe were so moved by the beauty of what they saw that they forgave Yukahu. They took the young god under their wings and called him ‘son’ and he continues to bless our people with laughter and beauty to this day.”

They stood in silence for a moment, as the waves slapped against their flesh. In a flash, Sansa had snapped back her arm and released her spear. “That makes five!” she exclaimed as she swam after the stuck fish.

“The Lord of the Reef smiles upon you, lady,” Mahinja grinned as he followed her.

Sarankar stretched languidly. “To speak of spears, I see that you have not made the Lady Flame a woman yet.”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” he growled, an apprehensive nerve running up his spine.

“Just an observation, Lord Dog. I will hardly be the only one interested in your coupling,” she slid off the coral. “The prophecy says that our victory in battle will only come if the Beast is bathed in bloody flames first. Many thought that the Two-Legged Dog would have to defeat the Tattered Flame in combat, but now that it is known that she is a girl, as yet untouched, old enough to be made a woman…”

“Are all of you bloody—?! If you think I’m going to force her—!”

“No one here will want to force either of you to do anything, my lord.” She held up her hands in submission, though the expression on her face was gravely serious. “Making love is a choice that must be freely made. But do not expect for my people to sit idly by while you pass by each other like ships in the night. It will happen— it must happen, or we will all die.”

“You’re fucking insane. Get out of my way,” he pushed past her to swim towards the shore.

“Sandor!” Sansa called from behind him.

She was treading water with yet another fish on impaled on her stone-tipped spear. It was unbelievable how well she had picked up the skill. If only she had a spear back in Kings Landing, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a way off of this buggering island,” he grunted. He planted his spear into the sand and trudged back towards her.

“I thought you said there wasn’t going to be a way off.”

“I changed my mind. If there isn’t, I’ll make one. We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“But why?”

He scrambled for a way to tell her, and failed. Instead he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in closer. For all he knew, those lunatics knew how to read lips. He lowered his head to hers. She was staring at his forearms, for gods knew what reason. “Little bird. Hey. Look at me.”

Sansa raised her eyes to meet his. “Trust me.”

“I do,” she mumbled, reaching one of her hands up to touch his.

He released her and walked out of the surf. The Hound pulled his spear out of the powdery white sand and entered the jungle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a Kashi chapter, everybody. I’m sorry it took me so long to get this out to y’all. I thought summertime would make it easier to write, but I was wrong. I do apologize. Please enjoy, and don’t forget to leave a comment if you missed us!

_Did Sarankar **say** something to him?_

Sansa felt herself pouting after him as Sandor stalked into the thick green of the jungle at the edge of the coast.  _He’s probably embarrassed he’s not as good at fishing as I am,_ she thought with a frown and a sigh, letting the tip of her spear dip into the water as her shoulders sagged; it made a soft _splish_ as it broke through the waves.

A bright school of fish came skirting across her vision, crimson and vermillion against the blue of the waves.  She tilted her spearhead smoothly in the crystal water, her focus suddenly recalibrated, fingers itching for yet another triumph.

 _Splish._ Six.

 _Splish._ Seven.

_Splish, splish, splish, splish, splish._

Her catches hung from Mahinja’s leather braces, swinging and trailing in the water, leaving nearly undetectable tendrils of rust swirling about his legs in their wake.

“It is a good thing you are here with us, Lady,” Mahinja laughed, slinging her twelfth catch over his shoulder.  “Westerosi are not so appreciative of a woman who can wield a spear well.  These women are shamed, sailors tell me.”

“I’ve never heard of such shaming,” Sansa insisted, a mite bit confused, trailing her spear behind her as she paced towards him for clarification.

And then a portentous _splash_ came not a moment later, something slick hitting her calf, her spear nearly jumping out of her hand.  She yelped, curling both hands around the rough wood of the shaft and drawing back, pulling up out of the water an enormous creature with dark gray flesh, its tapered body near as long as her leg, glistening wetly and thrashing with beastly strength.

Sarankar shrieked.

“Careful, lady, do not let it back into the sea!” Mahinja bellowed as he waded, splashing, to where she stood, holding her spear up with all her strength, her throat closing in terror of the fish at the end of it.  Mahinja produced a small bronze knife, stabbed the fish violently in the face, and nearly stumbled backwards, so anxious he was to escape from it.

“What is it?!  Is it dangerous?!”

“That’s a shark you’ve caught, Lady Flame,” Sarankar gasped, wading close to get a better look.  “Offspring of the goddess Guaba.  A fish-eating fish.”

“They eat men too, when they can.”

Her heart ran ice-cold in terror, but thankfully the fish—the _shark_ was losing its strength, thin ribbons of red blood trickling down its slick and still-thrashing body and dropping faintly back into the sea.

Once it stilled, Sansa tentatively reached her hand to touch its fin—slick like fine oiled leather—and then let her grip come around the thin end of the tail, guiding the spearhead out of the shark’s abdomen until the corpse of the animal swung free at her side, heavy on her wrist.  Twisting it around in the air, she caught sight of its still-flapping gills, frantic out of water, and its gaping mouth, lined with row upon row of sharp triangular teeth.  Frightened, she made to hand it to Mahinja, as she had each of her increasingly impressive (and decreasingly disgusting) catches, but he shied away.

Sarankar came up behind him, her eyes widening, and placed the palm of her hand on her brother’s shoulder, whispering in an awed tone their flowing Summer tongue.

Sansa stood, chest heaving, as Mahinja responded, equally awed; he then took a step towards her, brushed his fingers against the flank of the fish, causing it to twitch and her to shriek, nearly dropping it back into the surf, her fingers holding fast in spite of herself.

 “How can this be…so soon?”

“They have just come to us…”

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asked the two of them.

Sarankar stepped around her brother, placing the flat of her hand on Sansa’s exposed back, giving the fish a wide berth.  “Nothing you’ve done, lady.  Only…if this is what I think it is, we will have trouble on the island soon.”

“What kind of trouble?” Sansa asked, a childish whimper creeping into her voice.

“My brother and I are in disagreement about that.  Either way, you would be safer inland, by the pyramids, lady.”

“What should I do with the—?” Sansa began to ask, steps coming easier as she sloshed out of the waves, sand becoming drier and drier beneath her feet.  She made to lay the creature down in the sand, dropping its still and lifeless corpse into the powdery white, puffs coming up around the impact like when Arya would throw Sansa’s dolls into the summer snowdrifts of Winterfell.

“ _No,_ lady!” Sarankar shrieked, but it was already too late.  The shark was not so lifeless after all, twitching and writhing with a sudden and renewed vigor once her fingers uncurled from its tail.  Sansa staggered back, astonished.  _But surely it must be dead.  It is bleeding and choked out of water, surely…_ but Mahinja Do interrupted her thoughts.

“Grab it, lady!  Touch it again and it will still!”

“I can’t!”

“You must!  We have to show it to the king.  Show him the danger.”

 _Oh, Sandor, where have you gone,_ Sansa thought, trying and failing to swallow her fear.  “Can’t you pick it up, Ser Mahinja?”

He shook his head; somehow, she had known that would be his response.  “He is the chaos, made order by flaming hand.”

“Was this foretold as well?!” Sansa nearly shrieked, feeling irrationally betrayed.

“Please, trust us, Lady Flame,” Sarankar said, drawn tall and with more calm than she seemed capable of in that moment.

Sansa looked down at the creature, kicking up the powdery sand as it twisted, and drew a breath.  _Robb could do this, if he had to.  So could Arya.  I have to be brave, like them._   Her knees bent, her arm outstretched, and by some force of mysticism unknown a brush of her fingertips stilled the creature to its former torpor.  She heaved it up again by its tail, holding it quivering at arm’s length.

“That’s it, lady.  You mustn’t drop him, now,” Sarankar cooed.

“I’ve got him.  He won’t bite me, will he?”

“I should think not.  Come.”

Mahinja led the women expertly through the wet thick of the forest, each turn yet more unfamiliar to her until they suddenly broke on the settlement, people going about their business halting to stare in wonder at the girl, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, dragging the monster behind her by its tail, little red droplets of blood still beading, bleeding from its wounds.

Mahinja began to shout, calling in the Summer tongue to his people with a franticness echoing the screaming of Sansa’s arm muscles; a rounder, older woman rushed over with a wide wicker basket, the things that had been within hastily tucked under one arm, and set it before her.  Sansa dumped the beast into the basket unceremoniously, bringing it thrashing to life.  Those nearby sucked in a gasp. 

Her fears assuaged by the rather uneventful (apart from the strain) trek back to the settlement with the shark, Sansa laid her fingers on its flesh in a gesture of hollow tenderness, and the fish lied still.

And again the gasps arose.

More conversation flurried around her in the Summer tongue, and three men came forth with lengths of twine and hempen rope, binding the fish in the basket as she held him still, leaving him all but immobilized once she removed her touch.

The men threaded a wooden pole through the handles in the basket and carried the beast away between two of them, pacing off towards the great pyramid where she was housed, Mahinja swaggering in their wake.

“Where are they taking him?” She asked, feeling a pang of concern for the creature, beastly though he was.

“To His Potency King Mojjo,” Sarankar answered. “Mahi will tell him what he has seen you do.  There will be much discussion of what is to be done.  Their talks will not be suited to the attention of women.”

“Why not?” Sansa inquired.

“Ah, but I’ve forgotten.  You Westerosi women have limitless patience.  But you need more sun paste, child; you must be in such pain, with your sand-white skin…”

Sansa cradled her arm, fatigued from the strain of hauling the shark, against her hip as Sarankar herded her back towards the pyramid, in through a side entrance closer to her chambers, but the room was not as she had left it: in that morning they had been gone, someone had intruded and placed on every surface in the room an arrangement of brilliant and queer flowers, heavily perfuming her chambers with their light scent of Summer decadence.

Sansa paused, taken aback by the spectacle.

Sarankar clucked her tongue, shaking her head before sweeping fully into the room and removing the arrangement on the vanity.  “Thwarted Kiza, have you?”

“Pardon?”  Sansa was distracted by all the color.

“My nephew,” she called over her shoulder, looking through the little ceramic pots on the vanity for something in particular.  “The Prince.  My husband’s sister’s boy.  He does not take no for an answer until he has lost interest, and even then he is sometimes still relentless out of spite…now where…the sun-paste…”  Her searching became minutely more frantic.

But Sansa was only half listening.  The flowers…the flowers.

Sansa had always dreamt that her future husband would win her affections by giving her flowers—blue winter roses, she had always hoped—but of course, there were no winter roses here.  Nor was Kiza vying for her hand, and yet the gesture still managed to soften her heart, warm it to him.  _And he **was** very kind to me at the feast…his culture is just different than mine…he meant nothing by…_ but her thoughts skirted the events of the night before like a mist, changing their shape, their color, their flavor.  She felt a twinge of resentment at Sandor’s interruption.

The biggest arrangement had a small square of parchment sitting folded on one of the wide, thick petals, and upon it, written in astonishingly neat hand, was an apology.

 _Beautiful Flame Lady,_  
Many apologies for misunderstanding you last evening. You looked so beautiful in your Summer dress I nearly lost my senses.  I am learned of the prophecy now, and know you are not mine to make, but I would still love any chance to see your radiance and make you smile for me.   
Tonight stars will fall in the eastern sky.  Meet me by the bonfire ring at midnight.  I will take you to watch.  It will be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, other than your own reflection.  
Sincerely,  
Kiza Ko

Sansa sighed.  It was so sweet of him to write.  But what did he mean he was ‘ _learned of the prophecy now_ ’?  He had made it quite clear that he knew she was the Tattered Flame last evening, and was not ignorant to what it meant.

But that concerned her little.  Sansa had always been charmed by starshowers, what glimpses she could catch between the trees in the Godswood on those dark nights in Winterfell—what a spectacle one must be, playing out on the expanse of the black Summer sky…

“Lady?” Sarankar asked insistently, wresting Sansa from her reverie.  “I said I’ve found the sun-paste.”

Once she was administered the pale green, clean-smelling, sticky plant paste to treat her sun burns and dressed again in flowing, fire-colored silks, Sarankar offered to take her down to the Great Spring to eat her midday meal with the women and children of the village, though Sansa could tell from the angle of the sun it was likely past midday.  _How long has Sandor been gone,_ she thought, edging on worry.  _I wonder if he’s found anything…_

In order to distract herself from thoughts of Sandor, Sansa, ever more charmed by the open and supportive traditions of these people, followed Sarankar Do out of the pyramid, across the clearing, and along a well-worn but deeply shaded path through a thicket of jungle before the Great Spring was revealed to her, the cacophony of laughter, song and splashing reaching her ears long before the glittering blue waters filled with naked ebon-skinned children was visible. 

“This is a peaceful place,” Sarankar said, parting the foliage to let Sansa through.  “Arguments and grudges must be left out of this clearing.  No weapons are brought here.  Voices are only raised in laughter and song and joy.  It is a place where we may love the children as one, so they might love each other as one.”

“How wise of you,” Sansa commented.

“We should like to think so, Lady.  But come.”

Women were clustered about the shores with baskets of fresh-picked fruits from the trees about; Sansa found one holding the green-and-rose-skinned fruits with the sweet, soft orange flesh she so loved, and tore into it eagerly, using her wrist to keep the juices from dripping over her chin.  Children flocked about her, cawing for her attention, and the ones who looked little enough she would lift onto her hip, hold for a minute or so, and relinquish in order to give another child a turn. 

Their enthusiasm nearly broke her heart, their full, smiling cheeks and pink mouths, their soft, cool little grasping hands, their accented calls of “lady, lady!”— _this_ was the sort of love she had imagined receiving as Joffrey’s Queen, a senseless, joyful adoration that she could stoke with a stroke of a cheek, a kind word, a smile.

The women gathered around the edges of the spring seemed engaged in raucous gossip, speaking quickly and excitedly in their flowing Summer tongue.  She had only been listening to the sounds of their voices, the patterns of their speech, until she heard a word she recognized— _Sandor._

And suddenly they had her attention, this group of maybe eight or nine women in bright colored silks, making hand gestures and laughing.  A couple of them seemed to be arguing about the size of something, holding their hands about nine inches apart, curling their fingers into circles they couldn’t quite complete.  Others were touching themselves quite lewdly, pushing their breasts together and pointing at their woman’s place between their legs.  But again and again she heard it, thickly accented but doubtless in its form: _Sandor, Sandor, Sandor._

“Sarankar,” Sansa asked conspiratorially.  “What are those women talking about, over there?”

When Sarankar relayed the topic of conversation Sansa blushed hard and hot, though she had thought her burns could get no redder.  She thought of the size argument they seemed to have been having—nine inches between the women’s hands, circles they could not capture with their fingers— _how is that supposed to **fit** inside **any** one?!_

There was something else bothering her about their conversation, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it; could it be the openness with which they discussed such…private and inappropriate things before the children?  Or the number of women engaged in this conversation that _couldn’t_ possibly know what they were talking about?

Or, maybe, (though she was loath to think it, even to herself) what bothered her was that these women _did_ know what they were talking about.  Sandor hadn’t been terribly present at the feast, after all.

Sansa then felt acutely the need to be alone.

Luck, however, had retracted what favor it had bestowed upon her during her fishing endeavor, and instead brought to her a half-naked and sun-burnished Sandor, seething and (terrifyingly) brandishing his dirk, curses dribbling from his mouth on every breath.

And, repeating every single filthy word, an enormous flock of brightly-colored birds flapping after him in his wake.

“Seven hells, _there_ you are!”

_“Seven hells!”_

_“Seven hells!”_

_“Seven hells!  Caw!  Caw!”_

“To hells with you, brainless bastards,” he cursed, turning a little to flap a thick, well-muscled arm at the birds to scatter them.  “Little Bi—”

“ _Brainless bastards!”_

_“Bastards!”_

_“To hells with you!  Caw!”_ the birds interrupted.

Sansa could not help the laughter that escaped her then—the hilarity of his image, hulking and pouting, flanked and visibly vexed by this chorus of colored birds…It was just too much.  Her embarrassment and hurt were gone.  There was only the spectacle before her.  Sandor sighed.

“Seems your kin have taken to me just as you did, little bird.”

_“Little bird!”_

_“Your kin, little bird!”_

_“Your kin!”_

_“Caw! Caw! Caw!”_

“The Others take them,” he growled.

_“Others take them!”_

_“Take them!”_

_“Take them!”_

“Stop _laughing,_ damn you!”

_“Damn you!”_

“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” she panted between peals that unsettled the muscles in her core.

He sighed again heavily.  “I can’t get rid of them.  They’ve found me one by one.  I can’t catch them and I can’t kill them.  They’re always just out of my reach.  Bloody bastards.”

_“Bloody bastards!  Caw!”_

Sansa could hardly control her breathing.  She felt the need to kneel, to roll in the sand and laugh, something so undignified it would have never occurred to her if…well, if she hadn’t been met with the sight of Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Hound, his rage attended and amplified by a company of flamboyant wild birds.

But it was Sarankar, not Sandor, to pull her from her gasping with a cool palm on her shoulder, drawing her upright.  The humor was lost on her, apparently, as the matron was wide-eyed, mouth agape, much as she had been watching Sansa quell the shark.  The other women, so recently discussing Sandor’s prowess, were gaping as well.

“His Potency needs to see this,” Sarankar said gravely.

“If this is about your buggering prophecy—”

_“Buggering prophecy!  Prophecy!  Prophecy! Caw!”_

“Then we’ll be having nothing to do with it,” he managed to finish, his fingers curling around Sansa’s arm and tugging her into him.

“It does not matter, whether you will or you won’t.  What is foretold will find us all, anyway.” She murmured yet another phrase in the Summer tongue, reverent.  The women around her nodded in solemn agreement.  “We must alert His Potency.”

Sarankar would hear no argument proceeding.  She ushered them back to the main clearing of the settlement, past the bonfire pit and up into the main pyramid.  Many of the women present at the watering hole followed them in attendance, along with Sandor’s new flamboyant companions, who would chirp one filthy Sandorism or another from time to time in a random, blaspheming cacophony.  

Which Sansa was stuck with, more or less—the women seemed to be giving her and Sandor a wide berth, nudging her back towards him with wordless, encouraging gestures whenever she drifted too far from his side.  At one point, a particularly bold matron, clad in deep red silks, checked Sansa in the hip and sent her careening into Sandor’s side, nearly tripping over her own silks.  She reached out and took hold of his arm reflexively, stumbling, nearly tripping him.  He swore, and the birds answered in kind.

“Watch where you’re going, little bird!” he snarled harshly.

“I’m sorry, I just…” she didn’t quite know how to explain herself.  The wench had _pushed_ her.  Yet how could that be?  What sort of sense did _that_ make?  “The islanders don’t seem to want me to be very far from you, I gather.”

Sandor suddenly looked very uncomfortable, his thin lips twisted into an unreadable grimace.  Grimaces seemed to be the most basic component of his expression, along with a scowl and a glare, yet this one was new to her.

“Right.  I suppose they wouldn’t,” was all he said.

 _Is he trying to be cryptic?_   That wasn’t like him.  But she didn’t understand his response to her apology.

Sarankar seemed ready to push Sandor up the stairs, so frantic she was to get them before the King, winning them immediate entry from the guards with a few flowing lines of frantic Summer.  His silks and feathers were as brilliant as ever, nesting him in his throne.  She decided that bright colors must signify wealth in the Summer Isles.

“To what importance do I owe this honor?” King Mojjo asked in Common upon their intrusion, his diction polite but his tone frigid.

Sarankar responded in Summer, and the whole room of men, until recently engaged in heated discussion, paused on a gasp to look at Sandor. 

“Lord Dog.  Say something,” Mahinja Do urged from the fray.

“Like what?” Sandor snarled.

And the birds, who had followed him within, broke into titters.  _“Like what? What? What?”_

From beneath their ebony skin, the room paled, listening in silence as the birds talked themselves into boredom, eventually quieting.  A beat of perfect silence followed—Sansa bewildered at what significance the natives seemed to be observing—before the gathered Islanders broke into a babble of frantic debate.

Sandor was having none of it.  “Will someone tell me what’s bloody going on here?”

_“What’s bloody going on!”_

_“Bloody going on here!”_

_“Bloody!  Bloody! Caw!”_

“Macaws,” Mahinja gaped, “of _course!_ ”

Sandor rolled his eyes, sighing and folding his arms beside her.  “of _course_ ,” he whispered, mocking.

_“Of course!  Caw!”_

“Oh bloody buggering hells…”

“ _BLOODY BUGGERING—”_

“Mahinja,” King Mojjo ordered, his eyes wide and tone reverent, “your poetry.  The pertinent lines, if you would.”

Mahinja stepped forward, folding himself into a bow with all his wiry comedy, and cleared his throat. 

_“Beware the flesh of foreign land,_

_When Chaos ‘comes Order by Flaming hand,_

_On the seas will battle prowl,_

_Summoned by his tenfold howl.”_

“…you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re all bloody daft.  I show up with a couple bloody pet birds, and all of you think you’re going to _war?_   Piss on that…”

“Lady Flame,” Mojjo called serenely, beckoning Sansa forward towards a familiar wicker basket, still tossing and jumping at his feet.  She drew close with shuffling steps as he continued to speak.  “I believe the word of my people, but this is something I would like to see for myself.”

“Yes, Your G—Potency,” she said, kneeling beside the basket.  The fish had dried out, yet continued to flail.  She raised her hand to touch it, and heard Sandor give a sharp bark of protest, his birds echoing him, before she laid her fingertips on the flank of the shark.

The beast lied still instantly.

She flicked her eyes up to the King’s, held in heavy-lidded fascination.  “Chaos stilled by flaming hand,” he said gravely before turning his attention to Sandor.  “And you, Lord Dog. How many birds do you have there?”

“I don’t bloody know!  I didn’t fucking pick them out in some thrice-damned pet market!”

Several men were already at work counting them.  The quickest reported, “ten, sire.”

“Summoned by his tenfold howl…so it is.”  He straightened up and leaned forward in his throne.  “Let it be known among our people that no man or woman skilled with bow or spear be without his or her weapon henceforth.  Send scouts to each shore.  Keep the children inland.  Let no music be played, so we might listen for ship drums.  And…” his eyes returned to Sansa, raking her figure up and down once appreciatively.  “…ensure the Two-Legged Dog and Tattered Flame have their privacy this evening.  They should need it.  Now disperse.  I must fret in solitude.”

Sansa fell in beside Sandor as they exited the pyramid en masse, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“That last bit about us was somewhat odd, didn’t you think?” She asked him.  He bristled.

“I guess.”

“It just seemed so incongruent.  The rest of his decrees were aimed at safety.  Did he mean to keep us safe in private?”

“…I think I have an idea of what he meant,” Sandor growled sullenly, before calling over to a woman dressed in yellow, making a series of conspiratorial expressions at her.  Sansa felt a twinge of hurt that he would make such an effort to ignore her when they’d been separate all day.

The woman, though giving him a wicked little smile, coyly denied him.  Sandor huffed, suddenly cross, definitively refusing to engage with her.

“You needn’t make such an effort to avoid me,” she spat, sounding more sullen than she had hoped.  “If you don’t want me around, all you have to do is say so.”

“Well that’s just the problem, isn’t it?” he snarled, his wide ferocious eyes locking onto hers and inspiring a bolt of visceral terror that wracked her right before the hurt of his words did.  Frightened and ashamed, she turned from him, spinning on her heel to ascend the pyramid and return immediately to her room before she could start to cry.

His calls echoed after her, amplified by the mocking of the birds, yet she only spurred herself onward.

Once she was safely in her chamber, having slammed her door with all the force and wrath she was able, Sansa took a shuddering breath, willing her eyes to dry, pressing her lips together in hopes of keeping them shut.  What was this, this wave of hurt she was feeling?  Why _on earth_ did it hurt so much that _Sandor Clegane_ , ever since they’d come upon the islanders, seemed to be avoiding her at any cost?

He was rejecting her, and rejection was a universal hurt, but this was sharper than something universal.  A specific rejection.  An acute hurt.  He’d led her to believe he cared about her and he’d lied.

The tears did come, and go, and come again.  Strength came to her in moments, lacunas in her senselessness—why cry over _Sandor Clegane?_

 _Perhaps,_ she eventually allowed, in answer to her strength, _I was beginning to care about him too._

Yes, that was it—more absurd, even, but she was beyond that; there was a soft spot forming in her heart for Sandor Clegane.  Attatchment, kinship, affection—whatever name it was dealt seemed too strong or ill-fitting, but there was some seed of good feeling there for him.  A seed that felt betrayed.

Some hours after she had finished her crying, clutching a finely embroidered pillow to her stomach, she heard a familiar knock on her door.  What animosity time had done its best to subdue was back again with flaming passion.

“I don’t wish to speak to you,” she ground out.

“Just wanted to let you know I’d begun my guard, little bird.”

“I don’t want you guarding me.”

The door opened a crack, without her permission.  A grey eye and hooked nose peeked in.  “Little bird, don’t be absu—”

“I’m safe among these people, wouldn’t you say?” scorn soured her voice, creased her features.  “You certainly seem to have taken a liking to them.”

“And they’ve taken a liking to you,” he said, coming down into her darkness, his eyes lighting up with the bitter hate they characteristically held, a hate that had to resurface in order for her to realize it’d been missing.  “What if that Kiza fellow comes back and I’m not here to help you?  What then?”

“He’s apologized.  He’s won my trust.”

Sandor gave a raspy laugh, and pushed the door open so he could occupy the whole of its frame.  “You really don’t know what’s good for you, do you, little bird?”

“Get out. I’m not speaking to you anymore.  Go back to your chambers.  That’s an order,” she added, when he did nothing but fume.

“Is this all because of that thing I said?”

“ _Get out._ ”  She could feel tears pricking in her eyes, blocking up her throat; she took the embarrassment of crying in front of this man— _because_ of this man—and turned it into venom.  “I don’t want you around me. I don’t want you guarding me.  I don’t want you _thinking_ about me.  Why don’t you go find yourself a jar of Amber Sweet and a wench and forget you ever met me?”

“Sansa…what in _seven hells_ —”

“Are you going to leave or shall I?” she bit.  It was nearly midnight, after all—she was meeting Kiza soon.

She decided the answer for herself, took up a feathered cloak for her shoulders, and stormed past him, leaving him gaping.

“Sansa.  Sansa _come back right now._   Sansa!” 

She broke into a run as a tear threatened to breach her eyes, swallowed the rest as she dashed through something that looked like (and, to her good fortune, turned out to be) a shortcut, and sprinted out of the pyramid for the fire pit.

His thundering footsteps and frantic shouting grew more and more distant; a dark figure waited for her in the darker night.

“The Lady Flame.  I hoped you would come,” the prince bowed clumsily, the bow and quiver of arrows falling from his shoulder, but made up for it with the grace of his smile.

“It’s my pleasure, my lord.”  Her heart was racing from her run as she dipped into a curtsey.  “Let’s make haste before my sworn shield finds I’m missing.”

He grinned.  “As you say, lady.”

They tore off through the jungle in a direction she hadn’t been, fighting their way up a long, steep hill until they reached a clearing at the top. Nearly the whole of the sky was exposed, its blackness made blue by the light of a thousand thousand stars.

“How beautiful…” she gasped, twirling around.  To her right she could see the starlight reflecting off of the water.  Other islands were visible too, in negative: chunks of black against the shimmering dark blue of the whole night.

“We still have some time, lady, until the starfall begins,” he said, unslinging his bow and quiver from his shoulder.  “I could show you my archery, if you would like.”

“I would love to see how you arch, my lord.”

Kiza flashed her another bright smile before knocking an arrow, leaning back, and loosing it, letting it arc high into the sky.  The golden wood of the shaft and the bright green feathers in the fletching were visible by starlight, still light when they hit the water, impossibly far way.

“Did you see how far it got, lady?!” Kiza asked excitedly.

“I did!  I’m very impressed, my lord; Westerosi archers cannot shoot so far.”

He gave her a sly grin.  “You could.  Here, stand in front of me.”

She let him position himself behind her, curl his fingers around hers on the bow, show her how to knock her arrow.  Just when he was about to let her loose it, he stopped her.

“Here, I have an idea,” he said, digging into a small pouch tied to his quiver.  He withdrew two rocks, smashed them together just behind the head of an arrow, and had a flaming arrow within moments.  “More fitting for the Lady Flame, no?”  He helped her knock it, quickly, and loose it.  The tendril of flame flew high into the sky, sailing out over the water, still climbing, before it came down, down, down onto a tiny spit of land, a black spot on the shimmering ocean.

She turned to him, beaming with triumph.  “I did it!”

 “You did, you did, my beautiful lady,” he smiled.  “It is our bows, of golden wood—” Kiza drew close to her, offering her his bow to stroke, and was presumably about to tell her all about the superiority of golden wood for the production of archery equipment, but he was cut off by the sudden booming of a drum, coming from her right, echoing off the sea.

The youths immediately turned their attention back to the water, and found, where Sansa’s arrow had fallen, the spit of land had moved, and now played host to nearly a score of little specks of flame.

Specks of flame that suddenly became alight, arcing into the sky, growing brighter and bigger, whistling as they hurtled down towards them.

“Lady!  Take cover!” Kiza shouted, pulling her aside into the forest.

“What’s happening?!” She shrieked.

Kiza paused as the arrows hit the clearing, twenty at once, snuffing their flames out in the dirt.  She could hear more whistling on the wind in their approach.  “War, lady, as the prophecy foretold.  I thought we had more time…”

He might have gone on to speak more, had an arrow not struck him straight through the throat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loqui chapter. Sorry this took so long. I have failed 'Murica D:

 

This whole thing was a disaster—had been a disaster since day one. He could have brought Sansa back to her lordly brother and washed his hands of the chaotic mess she brought to his life. But no. The little bird wanted to go to Lys and he was too far gone to deny her anything. Gods damn him, he had rationalized it all so well!

 She’d be safer in Essos, he had told himself, and Lys was a safer bet than either Pentos or Myr or Norvos where the Prince of Dorne’s wife had come from. Better to remove her from the battlefield than allow her to get caught in the crossfire started by Cersei’s bastard and the Young Wolf. Against his better judgment, he had imagined a simple existence as her protector in the Free Cities. He could have bought her a small manse and kept her there, safe and happy, until the war was over and the Seven Kingdoms were calm again. That foolish invention was dashed to bits with the storm.

And then after they were marooned, his foolish dreams had, once more, been absolutely destroyed. Like the stupid dog he was, he had fantasized about the kind of life he could have built for them that first night. Had they been alone on the island, he could have carved a space for them in paradise; caught her birds and fish and served them up with peppercorns and lemongrass on platters of woven bamboo. Eventually she would have succumbed to youthful curiosity and that brand of insanity unique to women, and they would take their time populating their slice of endless summer with a litter of wolf-dogs.

It was futile.

They were not alone, and beyond that, they were subject to an entire populace’s deluded expectations of him, not only fucking away the maidenhead of Ned Stark’s last living daughter (which would not be an unpleasant endeavor, he had to admit), but leading them into war against all of the other ignorant savages in this tropical hellhole and coming out on top was the last thing he wanted to do. Never mind that the enemy would probably outnumber them at least six to one and possibly have external allies with superior weaponry. They were still using stone to tip their spears, for Gods’ sake!

Sandor pressed his fingertips against the sides of his skull and cursed. He needed wine badly. The last time he had had something to drink was…? He strained to remember, and failed. His headache could wait. Sansa had run off at least an hour ago. Stupid girl hadn’t even let him explain before snapping at him and bolting like some wounded animal. His anger bubbled in his gut. Naïve creature that she was, she had forgiven that miserable whelp. Didn’t she understand by now that men like that—princes like that— did not take ‘no’ for an answer?! She should have learned, after all she had been through, that words were wind and the handsome princes she liked so well were nothing more than venomous snakes disguising themselves in brightly colored plumage to gain access into her nest. Never mind the barking of the ugly dog at the base of her tree, trying to ward away all of the other predators.

The Hound bathed in cold fury as he touched down on the earth at the base of the central pyramid. Every person, whether servant or noble, that he had encountered in the halls after Sansa’s flight had been infuriatingly unhelpful. He did not trust the words in his meager repertoire of the Summer Tongue, but still he tried using the string of syllables they had used to refer to Sansa. His efforts were met with looks of confusion and responses that he couldn’t comprehend. He shifted tactics then, and tried to make his demands known in his own language. Most did not understand the Common Tongue, and the ones that did either misunderstood or feigned ignorance.

Sansa was sure to have come this way out of the pyramid. An enclosure for Stranger was in the process of being constructed, complete with a drying mud hut, a huge bronze bowl, and a trough of water laced with fruit juice. The stallion lifted his head from the hay and dates that had been placed in the bowl, and whickered to his master as he passed.

There were a collection of villagers puttering about their business around the pen. The Hound marched in front of a squat old woman repairing a casting net in front of her hut by torchlight. “Where is Lady Sansa?” he growled at the woman.

She did not respond. The crone gazed off into the distance while her gnarled hands continued to knit. Sandor withdrew his dirk from his belt and snatched up the front of the woman’s robes. “Answer me, you cunt!” he snarled with his dirk firmly placed against her throat.

The woman cried out and clutched at his wrist. “She can’t, Lord Dog,” said a voice from behind.

With the crone still in hand, he glanced over his shoulder. The bold woman he had fucked the night before stood behind him. “Why not?” he barked.

“My mother is blind and deaf, lord. She has seen nothing and heard nothing,” the woman placed her hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged her off and dropped the crone onto the earth. She started shouting at him in the Summer Tongue, and the bold woman immediately rushed to her side. “The Lady Flame was last seen by the central fire, Lord Dog,” she said with her arms wrapped around her mother’s body.

Sandor stalked away towards the bonfire with the crone’s curses echoing after him. Well away from the enormous fire’s erratic tongues, he found a man whittling out the head of a stone arrowhead who claimed to have seen Sansa by the spring. A group of spear-wielding matrons sent him back towards the center of the village, saying they had seen her head towards the pyramids with a pack of children.

The Hound fumed as he trudged back into the center of the settlement. Either Sansa was better at evading him than he had expected or he was being fucked with. His gut was inclined towards the latter.

He encountered a squad of men at the base of the central pyramid when he returned. Their iridescent feathers had been discarded in exchange for more practical garments. Layers of thickly woven grass replaced their usual cloaks, and were wrapped around any bit of bronze armor that might have struck something to make a noise. In this same vein, the warriors had removed the weighty ropes of bronze from their ears and beads from their braids. It seemed that the higher ranked warriors were marked with feathered shoulders on their cloaks, though he was unable to tell what the precise chain of command was just by looking.

Gone were the melodious lines of masculine banter. The warriors kept their chatter to just above a whisper, some forgoing speech to communicate with a strange series of hand signals.

His efforts at extracting Sansa’s whereabouts from the soldiers were fruitless. He was two seconds away from punching a haughty man that seemed to be an officer when he heard a familiar call.

“Ho, Westerosi! I thought you were supposed to be taming the flames,” Mahinja Do clapped him on the shoulder, the momentum of the gesture smacking the longbow hanging off the man’s back onto his arm as well. “If she’s too hot for you to handle, I could always give you a hand or two.”

A nearby officer snapped at them in the Summer Tongue, to which Mahinja apologized in hushed tones. Sandor shrugged off the man’s hand. Much as he was loath to involve himself with the obnoxiously gregarious waste of air, Sandor had to concede that Mahinja had far more knowledge about the lay of the land and how to communicate with his people. “Sansa’s missing,” he rasped quietly to the other man.

“I know.”

“What do you mean you know?!” He roared.

“Keep it down, Lord Dog!” Mahinja hissed. “Saran sent me to look after you two, but you weren’t there, so I looked around and I found this in her room.”

The man placed the butt of his spear onto the ground, fished within his cloak, and then handed Sandor a note written in an elegant, if somewhat bombastic hand. He perused the contents of the note several times, trying to decipher what it said between the dual impediments of foreign handwriting and the panic rising in his throat.

“Fuck me,” Sandor said under his breath. “How far east would they have gone?”

“This isn’t the best time, Westerosi, but if you insist…” Mahinja smirked. “If I know my nephew, they’re at a hill maybe two miles away due north, north-east—”

Mahinja’s words were interrupted by the wailing of a conch horn in the distance. The warriors around them stiffened. “What the fuck was that?” Sandor growled.

“Nothing, I’m sure,” Mahinja murmured.

The Hound stuck his fingers in between his lips and let loose an ear-piercing whistle. Stranger cantered around the side of the pyramid to his master’s side, nipping at a soldier that had not moved away fast enough. Sandor snatched the stone-tipped spear out of Mahinja’s hand before leaping onto Stranger’s back with a grunt.

“Westerosi! Hoi! Westerosi! Come back!” Mahinja exclaimed as he galloped away.

 

* * *

 

 

Stranger’s black hooves tore up the earth as they streaked through the jungle. Queer sounding birds screeched as they disturbed clusters of garishly colored singing frogs. The Hound leaned in close to Stranger’s neck as he steered his steed through the dark foliage with his knees. Both man and horse pitched their hearing about, searching for the familiar sound of human rustling among the clamor of a foreign night.

Sandor tightened his grip on the spear until his knuckles turned white. If that stupid prince put Sansa in the path of danger, if the island was indeed being invaded and any of those sons of whores touched a hair on her head—! Regardless of the scenario that played out, someone was getting gelded tonight, his lack of proper weapons and armor be damned.

His pulse throbbed on the sides of his skull, reminding him in flashes of sharp pain how long it had been since he last drank. The Hound bared his teeth against the moist tropical air whipping his hair about his face. He would not fail again. He could not. He had to tell her, had to make her understand… everything.

The stars glittered above, mocking him with their eternal, ethereal serenity. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. Stranger tensed between his thighs. Sandor allowed the courser to tread his own path, trusting him to guide them properly. It was irrational to think that he’d have any sort of chance at finding Sansa and the whelp with the amount of beach they could have possibly covered, but he had to try. He was not a fool to be played like a shawm; no one in their right mind would blow a horn for no reason when one’s entire population was preparing for battle. That bugle was a report of war, and the little bird had flown far out of his sphere of protection.

Stranger snapped to into a swift halt, his ears swiveling about nervously. The Hound picked up on the sound as well. Bits of language trickled in between the thickening network of mangroves. He shifted his grip on the spear to a more ready position. There were two, three, now four distinct voices just up the path. They were at a disadvantage because of the terrain, but Sandor was counting on the Islanders’ unfamiliarity with mounted warfare tactics to make up the difference if it came to a fight. Flashes of blood dotted up the path in an unmistakable pattern of fresh egress.

He nudged Stranger forward to better hear the conversation. The accent sounded different than what he had heard in the village. He picked up the words he knew to mean “arrow” and “woman” and a high-pitched whimper, and made his decision.

Sandor spurred his heels into Stranger’s side. The courser charged up the hill with a whinny, trampling one man beneath his massive weight and sinking his teeth into the arm of another. An arrow whizzed past them. Sandor stabbed the man in the gut with the tip of his spear just as Stranger darted to the side to dodge a strike from one of the man’s allies. Iron and shit filled the air as the man’s intestines spilled out in a froth of bloody ribbons.

The two remaining warriors shouted what he assumed to be curses at him. He snarled back the phrase Jalabar Xho had taught him before charging forward again. Stranger boxed at one of the warriors with his forelegs while Sandor lobbed his spear at the other. The spear burrowed itself through the warrior’s right lung and into a palm tree behind him.

A strangled scream tore out of the remaining warrior’s throat as Stranger bowled him over. The courser snorted in a self-satisfied manner as he dashed the man’s brains into the earth with his steel-shod hooves.

A chorus of conch horns echoed into the night, followed by faint sounds of battle. Good. That would keep any potential reinforcements occupied.

Sandor slid off of Stranger’s back and noticed a burning sensation along his left ribs. Liquid began to trickle down his torso. _That arrow must have grazed my side_ , he thought as he pressed his hand to the jagged wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He looked down at the sand and noticed a long, thin track of blood that trailed off the path and into the brush.

“Little bird?” he called out hoarsely.

From a thick twist of mangrove, there came a sob.

“S-Sandor—”

 The Hound pursued the sound, hacking past tangles of kudzu with his dirk to follow the blood trail. Sansa was huddled within the cavernous roots clutching the still form of the bastard prince to her body. She was covered in blood, though her tears made pale rust streaks down her face. Sandor rushed to her and wrenched the prince aside. His hands roamed over her body, searching for a wound. “Seven fucking hells, where are you injured?!” he snarled.

Her reply came as a keening whine as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. “I-I’m okay but they— they— in his neck and there was so much blood and he couldn’t run away and I tried to help and— and—!”

“It’s all right, you’re all right, you’re safe,” he drew her against him fiercely, tangling one hand in her disheveled hair. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Sandor clutched Sansa to him with one hand and flipped Kiza Ko over with his other. A gurgle of bloody air escaped from between the prince’s dead lips, though not from the force of his own lungs. The Hound grimaced at the iridescent fletching protruding from Kiza’s neck. Much as he was loath to put more weight on Stranger’s back, considering how lathered the horse was, it wouldn’t be strategically sound for them to just leave the body out for the flies.

Stranger wandered over at his master’s command, and allowed him to sling the prince’s body over the base of his neck. Sansa sniffled as she tried to find a clean area of silk that she could use to wipe her face. The Hound licked one of his thumbs and rubbed away a streak of dried blood from her cheek. She flinched, then rubbed the area with the heel of her palm. He laughed without mirth. “Ever the perfect lady, aren’t you?”

A sudden idea struck him at the sight of her smothered in blood. That blood would inevitably rub off on him on the journey back to the village. No one else would know the extent of her injuries, especially if he scared away her handmaidens and tended to her himself. That Sarankar woman might prove to be a challenge, but he wasn’t above using force if necessary. He had killed women before for far less, after all.

“Sansa.”

“Yes, my lord?” she said, her voice haggard as the shock began to wear off.

“Don’t let anyone know you’re not hurt.”

“Why?”

He wasn’t prepared to tell her about the slice of prophecy Sarankar Do had shared with him earlier. At least, not with her in this state. “Just… trust me.”

She gazed up at him. “I do.”

Sandor gathered her up in his arms and seated her just before the rise of Stranger’s rump. He stole one of the dead warrior’s spears (rather than trying to wrench Mahinja’s out of a tree and through a rib cage) and handed it to Sansa. He mounted awkwardly between her and the corpse, then drew the prince’s body into his lap and took back the spear. “This is going to be an absolute bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Hold on, little bird.”

Sansa wrapped her arms around his middle, causing him to wince in pain. “Are you injured, my lord?” her voice rose in pitch to reflect her concern.

“Just a scratch. Nothing to worry about,” he said.

She moved her arms up to cling to his chest instead. The Hound pushed Stranger into a steady trot down the path, making sure to stay away from the sounds of battle. While it would be best to make it back within the safety of the village as soon as possible, Sandor was not willing to deplete all of Stranger’s energy stores to do so in case they needed a spurt to evade any pursuers.

“Sandor…” the little bird chirped.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

He allowed the stillness to fall between them again, unsure of how to proceed. He was still furious that she had left him, that she had risked the life he had worked so hard to preserve, and yet...

The Hound grunted. “I don’t care for your apologies; just don’t run off next time.”

“Beg your pardon, ser,” she retorted. “I was under the impression you didn’t care to share space with me.”

“What in the buggering hells gave you that idea?” he said incredulously.

“You made it quite clear from the way you’ve been acting.”

Sandor growled in frustration. “Stupid little bird! How many times to I have to pull you out of danger before you open your eyes and realize I _want_ to be around you?!”

She stiffened behind him. After an eternity of silence, he felt her cheek press against his shoulder blades and her arms tighten around him.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sandor's chest tightened; he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "It's alright," he allowed, half-grunt, half-gasp.

Sansa sighed heavily into his back, the wet warmth of her breath still somehow perceivable against the wet warmth of both the night air and the battle-sweat clinging to his skin. He felt her take a few more sharp breaths in before her exhales started to shake and the little stubs of her fingernails dug into the skin on his chest a little bit tighter. Was something wrong? Likely. Should he say something? More likely. But what to say?

In the end it was the little bird who spoke first, a quivering, whispery chirp. "...can you close his eyes?"

"What now?" Sandor growled, pulled from his discomfited, confused reverie.

"His eyes..." she swallowed hard. “Can you... could you close them? I...I'm sorry, I just... he keeps looking like he's about to speak to me..."

Sandor twisted the Prince's head to face forward so as to stop tormenting her. "Better?"

She didn't say anything more, neither confirming nor denying that it was, in fact, better. If she cried, she cried softly; even as much as he tried to ignore the thought— and what it meant that he couldn't ignore it— he could not shake the feeling that Sansa was, in fact, crying, nor the mounting conviction that he should do something about it.

But what?

 

* * *

 

He slowed Stranger's pace as they broke the trees into the village clearing; sounds of war were clamoring elsewhere on the island, the whole people seemingly invested in the effort in one way or another.

The blind crone he'd encountered earlier still sat by Stranger's pen, arthritic fingers yet engaged in net-mending. He rode up to her, stirring her to milk-eyed alertness as he dismounted and lifted the boy down beside her, guiding a shaking hand down to a clean section of his forearm by way of explaining. Never mind that the crone was deaf as well as blind. Sansa wasn’t aware of that and he had endured the whelp’s closeness long enough. "Your Prince," he grunted, stealing a glance at Sansa, her face hidden in frustrating demureness. "Look after him until the others get back, would you?"

It was then that Sansa turned, eyes wide, glassy and puffy with drying tears, her hands folded to cover her mouth. He met her eyes, took up the reins hanging loose by Stranger's neck, and began to lead them towards the pyramid housing them.

"You're just going to leave him there?" She finally asked, well out of earshot of the old crone.

"You got a better idea?"

"Is...I mean...is it not discourteous to—"

"Don't give me any of your peeping about courtesy just now. The boy's dead. He can't appreciate your courtesy anymore."

"But his people—"

"Will care less than you think they will. Trust me."

"But—"

"Please let this go, Sansa," he groaned, closing his eyes. "Let him go so I can take you back to your quarters and look after you."

She let out a short, shuddering breath and capitulated. "Alright."

Stranger trotted up the steps into the pyramid and through the myriad of hallways almost of his own volition until they arrived at Sansa's chambers. The few maids they met within had informed Sandor (brokenly) upon his inquiry that Sarankar had taken up arms and joined the war effort, so he was free of her particular brand of pestering— the maids, though, had their own brand, encouraging him with panicked enthusiasm to meet their countrymen in the field. He bluntly refused, barking at them until they crossed the threshold and shutting the chamber door in their faces.

He rifled through the shelves and armoires looking for anything he could use. Foul-smelling unguents and salves filled an entire compartment within a gilded cupboard on the wall, along with strips of undyed linen in several lengths and widths. He sniffed at several of the concoctions in the hopes of picking out any he might recognize. There was a balm of honey and wine and a few other herbs he could not place, as well as a thick burgundy paste that looked like it would stain. He grabbed those, in addition to several yards of linen and the carafe of water sitting on top of Sansa’s dressing table.

When he turned his attention to her she was perched on her bed, one arm crossed over her chest. He crossed the room to kneel before her. She started when he grasped her ankle, but did not resist otherwise. He dipped a section of linen in the carafe and began to clean the dried blood off her legs.

"... That was rude of you to dismiss them so," she said as a flush crept upon her cheeks.

"I know. I don't care. Arms."

She gave him her hands obediently. He grabbed a fresh cloth and sullied the material to reveal the milky expanse of her forearm. Sandor repeated the gesture on her other arm, relishing, despite it all, the feeling of her flesh so close to his.

"... They're probably right. They would likely stand a better chance in fighting if you were among their people."

"Fuck their people,” he snarled as he tossed away the soiled linen and took up a new strip.

He smeared the dark paste on her left bicep in a slightly jagged line, then wrapped it with the linen in the hopes that it would bleed through enough to look like a fresh wound. “Why would you say that?” she gasped.

“I don't fight for them; I fight for you." He swallowed, his voice breaking as her awestruck eyes hit him. "Only for you. Don't you know that by now?" His voice was edged in frustration, half at his show of weakness, half at hers of ignorance.

She measured out her words carefully as she folded her hands primly in her lap. "You never swore..."

"I swear no vows. I told you that the first day I met you."

She processed that, her eyes on the backs of her hands, and though he was taut as a bowstring with anxiety over this conversation, he figured she had to have understood.

"... And... You want to be around me?"

"If I hadn't, do you think I would have taken you away from there? Do you think I would have even come to your chamber in the first place during that thrice-damned battle? God damn it, Sansa, if you've gotten this upset over a couple of words I didn't say—"

"So you don't hate me?" Her posture slumped, voice cracked, lips pulled back from teeth in a grimace of both grief and relief.

_Damn me, I've made her cry again. Gods damn you, dog. Damn you to the deepest of the seven hells._

"Hate you?" He willed his voice to sound gentle, though he doubted it did. "How could I?"

She sobbed at that, and he forced himself to keep back, respect her, give her her space. "Sometimes I want to," he allowed, "And I know it'd be better for us both if I did. But no, I don't hate you Sansa."

She gave a cry, her face contorted in a like-smile, before she rushed him and wrapped her arms around his middle, holding him tight enough to tweak his arrow wound, but he folded his arms across her shoulders, held her closer, and let her cry into him.

Her sobs subsided after a minute. She pulled back enough to look him in the face, her eyes shimmering with emotion. He, however, could not look her in the eye. Her brow furrowed. “What is it?” she asked.

“You’ve got a spot of blood right there,” he murmured.

“Right where?”

“Here.”

He brushed his thumb across the corner of her mouth, and then pressed his lips to hers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Kashi chapter. It’s a headcannon of mine that Sandor gets all courtly-dictioned when he feels ashamed of himself. Which is rarely. But still.

 

Well.  This was.

 

_Well._

Wasn’t it impolite to kiss someone without asking for her permission?

 

Didn’t Sansa usually care about that sort of thing?

 

Her arms, which had been looped around his waist as she’d clung to him, sobbing with relief at his lack of indifference, had stayed put, as if holding him, instead of pushing him away reflexively like she expected them to.  Indeed, her whole body seemed to be betraying her with its compliance to the will of his gentle, startling kiss.

 

And leading this mutiny of compliance, her heart.

 

_Well.  I never._

Hours before she’d discovered a speck of affection for the brute, cried over him even, yet it seemed absurd that she should be sighing against his lips ( _completely against her will,_ she noted internally) if that mote of feeling was as small as she’d judged it to be.

 

_Did I judge myself wrongly?_

His lips were warm but weathered, the hook of his nose gently brushing the side of hers as his mouth dipped and moved on her lips, ever so slowly, as though one sudden move would spook her and send her flitting across the room.  Not an entirely undue caution.  And yet the sigh that came from her as he pressed his lips into hers a fourth time, her own lips shivering against his in a timid kiss in return, seemed to spark something in him, and his caution he threw to the howling wind.

 

A groan rose from his chest as he brought one hand up behind her neck, pulling her closer, holding her to him.  His other hand closed around her hip, dwarfed by the palm of his hand, and she knew she was helpless, trapped to him, and while there was a thrill and panic in her of something like danger, she could hear his voice as if it were carried on the very smell of his sweat:  _No, little bird, I won’t hurt you._

 

But there is a difference between being out of danger and feeling safe.

 

And if your protector is the one making you feel unsafe…

 

“Sandor, I…” she managed to eek out between his kisses, and inexplicably her voice shattered the moment and sent him reeling back from her, gasping with eyes wide and full of bewildered guilt.

 

He shied away from her gaze at once.  “Forgive me, Lady Sansa.  I…I meant not to offend.”

 

“It’s alr—”

 

The door to her chamber flew open before she could finish, and in swept Sarankar Do, her brother hot on her heels, with seemingly the rest of the village waiting in the corridor without.

 

“May gods be just, Lady Flame!  They tell me you are injured?!”

 

Sandor stepped between Sansa and the matron, shielding her from view.  The vulnerability he wore from the moment before had disappeared, and he was her snarling Hound once again. 

 

“That she is.  And lost a lot of blood, at that,” he lied, spitting.  “I’m seeing to it; the last thing she needs is to be a buggering spectacle in her state.  Now off with you.  All of you.”

 

Some villagers took steps backward, but Sarankar and her brother stayed put.  Mahinja leaned over to whisper something in their Summer Tongue to his sister, which earned him a quick slap and an admonishing tone, though he was laughing so hard at his own joke he seemed not to care.

 

Once Mahinja quieted down, Sarankar sighed and asked, “Please allow me to treat her, Lord Dog.  I am trained in healing.  You can—”

 

“I’ll not leave her to fight in any bloody war for any buggering king, you craven bastards understand me?!” Sandor shouted, rocking forward and scattering the rest of the villagers.

 

“Nobody is trying to separate you from her, Lord Dog,” Mahinja said with a sly smile.  Then, to his sister, “Come, Saran.  It seems we are interrupting something.  Let them alone.  Maybe then Jurakan will lower his clouds.”

 

Confused at this, Sansa tried to lean around Sandor to ask what he was talking about, but he blocked her view with his massive, naked back.

 

“We are interrupting nothing,” Sarankar said disdainfully, shooing her brother into the corridor.  She held her hand out to Sandor.  “Come, Lord Dog.  The incoming storm has blown our enemy off-course for the time being, yet you must still allow me some time alone with the Lady.”

 

“Over my dead body,” he growled, turned his head and spat.

 

“I’m afraid I cannot oblige you in any of the ways that strange Westerosi idiom can be construed.  Please, Lord Dog.  I will not ask you again.”

 

“Go ahead, Sandor,” Sansa said, trying to sound permissive, but perhaps her words had registered differently to Sandor, as his eyes were filled again with the guilty, bewildered vulnerability they had been when he had apologized for kissing her.  He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and sighed, directing his attention at her feet. 

 

The muscles in his jaw worked for a moment before he ground out, “as you command, my lady.”

 

And then he was gone.  With Mahinja and the rest of the party, isolated behind the heavy goldenwood door.

 

“Actually, um, you _were_ interrupting something, a little,” Sansa confessed to Sarankar after the door swung shut.

 

“Nothing that would lead to anything useful,” the matron asserted dismissively.  “Otherwise Jurakan would not be so prone to unleash his fury on us all.  He is impatient with you, Lady Flame.  He means to prompt your choice.  Now come.  Let me see to your wounds.”

 

"I was only hit once.  Here. On my arm." Her tongue tripped over the lie Sandor had given her.

  
"Hm. By what?" The older woman didn't sound convinced.

  
"An arrow." A streak of brilliance struck her. "It grazed my arm and hit Prince Kiza."

  
Sarankar's brow furrowed. "You must allow me to check for any other wounds, Lady."

 

Sansa sat obediently before her vanity, schooling her face to not let her confusion show before she was certain she knew not what Saran was referring to.  “Why would Jurakan be impatient with me?”

 

“Because you have not chosen your Lord Dog yet to make you a woman.”

 

Sansa blinked, thinking she’d misheard, or that Sarankar had misspoke, but when the matron’s nonchalance had turned cold and heavy in her stomach, Sansa squeaked, “pardon?”

 

Sarankar continued to search her body for mortal breaches of the skin, taking her time in answering.  “As the prophecy foretells.  Originally, we had interpreted the lines to suggest that the Two-Legged Dog must kill the Tattered Flame in battle, but now that we know the Tattered Flame is a young girl, not yet made a woman, it is clear that the Two-Legged Dog must be her Choice, love her into womanhood, and bathe his manhood in the blood of her relinquished inexperience.  Has your Hound not explained as much to you?”

 

Sansa shook her head vigorously, feeling betrayed, violated and angry.  This was starting to feel like the longest night of her life.  “He’s said no such thing!” and then felt hot tears, like as not from exhaustion, prick the back of her eyes.  She flung herself down on the vanity to hide her face.  “How come nobody ever tells me _anything_?!”

 

The matron sighed.  “Come now, Lady Sansa, do not be so upset—”

 

“No,” Sansa started, whipping around at the woman and standing, shaking a finger in her face.  “ _No._   I thought I had a choice.  I thought in your culture I was supposed to be given a _choice!_ ”

 

“You have,” Sarankar said, trying to placate her.  “You always have.  I just know what choice you _will_ make, when the time is right for you and all of us.”

 

Sansa was enraged.  Before, she had liked Sarankar.  Before, she had _trusted_ her.  “This place is no different than Westeros.  Is it inescapable that my innocence should be currency for political power, no matter where I am in this world?!”  She was sobbing now.  “How can you assume to _know_ what choice I will make?!  How can you know such a thing, when even I cannot?!”

 

Sarankar Do drew herself up tall, folded her hands across her lap.  “I am the high priestess of Atabe on this island.  I can confer with the Gods.  I know these things, just as my mother before me knew them and her mother before her.”

 

“Well, I am a Stark of Winterfell, just as my father was before me and his father was before him.  We were once the Kings and Queens of Winter.  And Winter will not bow to your heathen southron gods, not for anything in this entire world!”  She was spitting with ire she had once only known Arya to bring forth in her.  “I was bred to consort with Kings.  In my native land I was a Princess.  If I wanted to, if I’d been allowed my _choice_ back home, I could have had any man I so desired.  How, then, is it at all even _possible_ I would choose to give my maiden’s gift to that scarred and tactless _brute_?!”

 

There was silence in the room then, heavy and hot.

 

Sarankar cleared her throat.  “Perhaps I should go, Lady.”

 

“Perhaps you should,” Sansa snorted.

 

The matron’s steps were brusque until she paused just outside the door.  “Lady?”

 

“What!?” Sansa snapped.

 

Sarankar turned; whether it was there or not, Sansa detected a haughtiness in her tone that only further irritated her.  “It is just that, when Winter arrives on these islands, you’ll find it feels just as the other seasons do.  It is as warm and fruitful as summer, this far south.”

 

Though she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, the comment only served to stoke her rage; Sansa flew across the room, wrenched the door open for the matron, and fairly shoved her out into the corridor.

 

Shoved her into the corridor and, incidentally, a large, familiar figure sulking outside her door, evidently listening in on their conversation.  He apologized to Sarankar in his usual rasp, and at the sound of his voice, Sansa felt a chilling dread pool in her stomach.

 

 _He heard everything I said,_ she knew at once.  She met his eyes, as filled with regret as she imagined her own to be, before he dropped his gaze to the floor and stepped back listlessly, into the blackened corridor and padded after Sarankar without another word.

 

“Sandor,” she called after him without thinking, “wait!”

 

But he did not.

 

Flush hit her cheeks as the shame did.  _He’s heard everything.  Every single thing I said._

_‘Ladies,’_ chided the shade of Septa Mordane, _‘do not speak ill of others, and in cases which they must, **Ladies** do so discretely, vaguely, and well out of earshot.’  _ Sansa had received the lecture after Septa Mordane had wrenched her from Jeyne Poole’s side when they were yet girls, gossiping to ascertain whether or not the Septa had any hair beneath her habit.

 

Second to that moment, this was the most ashamed of herself Sansa had been in her entire life.  _To think,_ she gulped, _how disappointed, how hurt must he be?_ Certainly Sandor Clegane did not have the sensitivities of a withered old Septa, but something about the chill trailing behind his shoulders, touching her in her core, made her unsure.

 

And he _had_ been kissing her, not a minute or two ago.

_Well, if he didn’t hate me before…_

Resigned, she stepped back into her chamber and shut the door, staring unblinkingly at the golden woodgrain between her fingers.  Sandor was not alone in weighing on her mind: prince Kiza was dead, warfare had come to their peaceful little island, and she could not be certain about exactly what sort of prophetic hand her presence had played in these two events.  The whole matter of the prophecy only compounded in complexity with time, and what mysterious involvement she initially had seemed innocent enough to Sansa was becoming something altogether more dreadful and familiar.  She sighed heavily.

 

_It’s all the same.  Everywhere in the whole world it’s all the same.  Selfishness and lies and killing.  Whatever goodness there was in the world went with Father’s head._

The weight of a long and terrible day, doubled by bitterness, now brought a fatigue she could feel in the marrow of her bones.  She estimated that the hour must be quite later than she was used to retiring, and pulled herself to her vanity to ready herself for sleep.  She unwound her silks, combed and braided her hair as best she could, washed her face and mouth out with cold water from the basin, and slipped into her bed.

 

The storm Sarankar had alluded to earlier came quietly, and then all at once, whipping itself into a tempest that howled like summer storms at Winterfell, nearly human in its screaming.  She could hear bits of vegetation come free, scraping against the heavy brick of the pyramid, _thwack_ ing against the glass of the windowpanes with startling suddenness.  And then the thunder picked up, like the wind in its volume, rumbling and cracking as if the sky itself was splitting in half.  Lightning, bright as day, came bolting into her room, coloring it wholly unnatural, green and purple and gray-white.  Fear seized in her chest; Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath, and pulled her blanket over her head.

 

 _This is exactly what I need,_ she thought distantly, _to be frightened by a thunderstorm like a bedwetting child at the end of a day like this._

Another roll of thunder pulled her knees to her chest; she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

 

_I survived a shipwreck.  A **shipwreck**.  How am I so afraid of a little—_

The next crack of lightning flashed into her guarded eyes, in time with a deafening crack that she, in her heightened imagination, figured _must_ have been the pyramid, splitting open.

 

_I need Sandor._

 

Her pride kept her back a few minutes more, huddling beneath her covers and trying to convince herself she was being ridiculous.  _And besides.  Sandor isn’t speaking to you, remember?_

But why was that?  She’d been unkind—he, who was always there for her, was undeniably scarred, tactless and brutish, but that was not all he was.  His scars were not nearly as unsightly as before she came to know him, nor was his tactlessness so abrasive.  Slowly she began to learn the language of his kindness, the subtleties of it, and see with some clarity that the kindness he had for her was far wider and deeper than she could know.

 

And she had affection for him—she could no longer ignore or deny it, for it grew plainer every day.  And this man, for whom she had affection, had kissed her (and it had felt really quite nice) and she had thanked him with unkind words.  The shame, remorse and disappointment in herself rang on every level of her being.

 

 _I will apologize in the morning,_ she told herself.  _He probably needs to take the night to cool down.  I survived a shipwreck.  I am a Stark of Winterfell.  I can be brave._

 

But the next thunderclap was so loud and so close it might have been in her very own heart, and Sansa was on her feet before even its echo had faded.  At this point, needing to choose between swallowing her fear or her pride, her pride suddenly seemed more manageable.

 

On the bare balls of her feet she skittered down the corridor to Sandor’s chamber, knocked daintily, and, upon hearing a surly, uninviting grunt, let herself inside.

 

He sat at a stout-built goldenwood table, a clay flagon in his hand, the room lit in a dull warmth by a singular tallow candle.  He’d let his hair hang in his face, had yet to wipe the prince’s blood from his body.

 

“I said leave,” he grunted sullenly, pulling the flagon up to his lips, gulping.  Wiping his mouth on his wrist, he turned to glare at the unwelcome intruder haunting his threshold.  “I don’t want any company ton—” he met her eyes, took a startled breath, and almost made to get up before he slouched back over the table, picking the flagon up again.  “Can’t say I expected to see you here,” he took a sip.  “Choosing the company of the scarred, _tactless_ brute.”

 

“Sandor, I—”

 

“I got the impression you would _never_ be caught _choosing_ my company.”

 

“You have every right to be angry at me.  I’m very ashamed of myself for what I said.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” he intoned, sarcastic.  “Being on my bad side doesn’t suit you.  Without me, you’d be dead.  That’s one strong survival instinct you’ve got, little bird, if it’s got you begging my forgiveness on those soft, white, highborn knees of yours.”

 

She did her best to ignore the sleight.  “May I come in, se—my l—…Sandor?”

 

“And how would that _suit you,_ Lady Sansa?”

 

“I want to make peace with you.” He made to cut her off, but she spoke over him.  “Earnestly.  From the bottom of my heart.”

 

He took a swig from the flagon.  “Are you going to tell me that you didn’t mean what you said?  That you take it all back?” He chuckled darkly, bitterly, and drank again.  “Don’t be a fool.  I’ve heard it all, girl, every blithering insincere bit of it.”

 

Sansa squared her shoulders.  “No,” she said firmly, “I wasn’t.  I meant what I said.  You cannot deny that you are scarred, tactless and brutish.  I doubt you want me to lie to you and say that you’re not.  But…” she glided into the room then, letting the door swing shut behind her.  The man seemed transfixed, his eyes on her face.  “That is not all you are, to me.  With me you are kind…in your way.  You’re open, trusting.  You’re concerned.  You’re the only one who ever gave a fig about me in King’s Landing—”

 

“Buggering hells, girl,” he snarled.  “Save the bleeding speech.  If you’re here to say you’re sorry then bloody well get on with it.”

 

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”  She exhaled.  It seemed anticlimactic, and Sandor seemed only somewhat satisfied.  Before she could think, she added.  “And I’m sorry you stopped.  Earlier.”

 

Her stomach dropped as Sandor froze, flagon halfway to his mouth.

 

_WhatdidIjustsay??!?_

_“What,”_ Sandor turned, his voice somewhere between offended and touched, “ _did you just say_?”

 

“Well, I…uhm…I said…” she stuttered. 

 

_There’s no going back now, Sansa.  Own it._

The man blinked at her, wide-eyed, expecting to get hurt.

 

She cleared her throat, smoothed her skirts, tried to look him in the eye, opted for his chest instead.  “I’m sorry you stopped earlier.  When you were kissing.  _We_ were…uhm…kissing.”

 

He stood, incredulous.

 

“I…uhh…liked it.”

 

“You liked it?” His voice broke in its rasp as he stepped measuredly towards her.

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Look at me, little bird, and say it.  No stuttering.”

 

A clap of thunder made her jump as she found his grey eyes.  _He has the look of the North,_ she could not help but think.  “I liked it when you kissed me.  When we kissed.”

 

He let that swing between them, and heaved a sigh.

 

“Gods damn me…Seven hells…” he muttered.  “So…should I do it again, then?”

 

Sansa blinked, averted her eyes.  He was standing quite close to her now.  “I mean.  If you want to.”

 

“I want to.”

 

Sansa swallowed.  He was leaning over her now, his hand lingering inches away from her neck and jaw.

 

She gave a single nod, whispered “alright,” and stole one last glance at his closing eyes before his hand cupped her face and his mouth was at hers again.

 

This time he kissed her with a softness that was not so timid as tender, one careful press and drag of his lips that she met, as well she knew how, with a press and drag of her own.  He drew back, bewildered, swiped his thumb across her cheek and whispered her name as he shuffled closer, dipped lower, looped an arm around the small of her back. 

 

Her arms seemed to want to go around his neck and so she slid them thusly, apparently encouraging him as he drew her body against his, kissing her more insistently.  The moments stretched into a small, melodic infinity, and Sansa found herself quite content under his command.  Who knew kissing could feel so pleasant? For it was undoubtedly pleasant, despite the awkwardness of his scarred corner.  But more than pleasant was the feeling that was welling in her heart, pooling in her throat, pouring from his mouth to hers and hers to his: a desperateness, a hunger not only for the kiss but for the intimacy and closeness it demanded, the affection it expressed.

 

She had needed this more than she had known.

 

It was a clap of thunder that broke the kiss, startling them both to jumping, bumping their noses together.  Sansa swore daintily, and Sandor chuckled, pulling her face to his chest in an embrace and sighing happily.

 

“So I’m forgiven?”

 

“You’re forgiven, little bird.”  Another thunderclap rattled the room.  “Is there anything else you need from me this night?”

 

“Well…I…” she jumped at yet another clap of thunder.  _If this is Jurakan, he must be displeased we stopped._ There suddenly seemed weight to Sarankar’s claims.  “I have to admit, I’m a little scared of the thunder…”

 

“Scared!” Sandor hooted, beginning to laugh.  “Little bird, we—”

 

“I know, I know.  It’s childish.  But I can’t help it!”  She tightened her arms around him as another bolt wracked the sky.  “But I think sleeping by you would make me feel better.”

 

He chuckled low in his chest and mussed her hair before smoothing it back down.  “Alright, little bird.  You can sleep by me.”  He stepped back from her, patting her waist gently.  “You go warm the bed while I ready myself.  Unless you’d like to help me wash off all this blood,” he gestured at his skin, still rusted red.

 

She ignored the wanton shred of her that was tempted to explore the way his muscles would feel beneath her fingers and cloth.  “I’ll let you take care of that.”

 

And she must have flushed, for the wicked grin he gave her over his shoulder before he sauntered to his basin and began to messily wash.

 

She was not so willed as to keep herself from watching, though, as he wet and scrubbed himself down, tore his fingers through his hair, stripped out of his breeches (well, she might have turned away _then_ ) and dressed himself in fresh ones.  The darkness came with a faint whiff of smoke as he blew out the candle and his naked footsteps drew closer to the bed, sagging behind her with his added weight.

 

Sandor, likely emboldened, slid up behind her, fitting his knees into the crook behind hers, draping a palm over her waist, his breath stirring the top of her head.

 

“Little bird?” he asked.

 

“Mmhm?”

 

“The thunder’s all but gone.  Do you still need to sleep here?”

“I still want to, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, half in a yawn, and tucked herself further back into him.

 

He said not another word after that.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you seriously—?”

“Shit. I didn’t think you were awake.”

“I am now.”

“…”

“Sandor.”

“Hm?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Aye, it doesn’t.”

“I think I have a right to know.”

“Do you now?”

“It’s my body. And you promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t see how this counts.”

“Well your fingers are so large…”

“…”

“Sandor!”

“Seven bloody hells woman! Fine! Fucking fine! It’s exactly what you think, and if you _ever_ tell _anyone_ , I’ll… uh… I’ll snap your pretty little neck. Or something. Fuck it.”

“… You don’t have to stop.”

And thus was the infamous Lannister Hound caught playing with one Sansa Stark’s hair.

It had started innocently enough. He had rejoined the world of consciousness first, with a large clump of her fiery mane tickling his nose. In brushing it out of his way, he had marveled at how soft it felt. His curiosity demanded that he make sure it wasn’t a mistaken sensation created by a drowsy mind.

Sandor had run the fingers of his free hand through her tresses, satisfying his curiosity, but at the same time creating another problem: his fingers had become snagged in a tangle.

He had tried to withdraw, and only succeeded in ensnaring himself even further. Sansa mewled in her sleep out of what sounded to be protest.

Sandor had cursed under his breath. He would have to proceed with the utmost caution to avoid waking her. With the assistance of the hand he had pillowed beneath his head, Sandor picked through the snarl as gently as he could.

After freeing himself, he could not resist the urge to run his fingers through her newly combed locks. That led to another tangle, and another stroke, and on and on, until before he knew, she had woken up and caught him knuckle-deep in her mane.

Sansa cuddled closer into the curve of his body with a contented sigh. She took his free arm and pulled it over her waist. “I was serious, you know,” she said with a mischievous pout.

“Huh?”

“Don’t stop.”

The Hound continued to pet her hair. She, in turn, drew lazy patterns along his forearm, humming softly all the while.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said after a time.

Sansa stiffened. “What will we do? Sarankar didn’t believe me, and I don’t… I’m not…”

The Hound stopped his ministrations. He grasped Sansa by her shoulder and rolled her over to face him. “You listen to me,” he growled. “Not a single one of these whoresons is going to force you to do anything or they’ll have to answer to me.”

She flushed. “But the prophecy—”

“Bugger the prophecy,” he spat. “And bugger their gods. It’s your life. You make whatever decisions you want, and I’ll fuck up anyone that stands in your way.”

“And if the person that happens to be in my way is you?” she challenged.

“Then bugger me too.”

Her brow furrowed. “But still… everything that they said so far has come to pass.”

“Exactly. We don’t know what they’ve left out or what they’ve changed to suit their needs.”

“What Sarankar said about the blood worries me. I don’t want to fight you and I’m not ready for… that sort of thing.”

He snorted. “More than one way to bleed a woman.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Next time your moon times come, we could just put you up in a tree with no smallclothes—”

Sansa wrinkled her nose and swatted his chest. “You’re so crude!”

“And you’re still here,” he smirked.

She closed the gap between them and pressed a firm kiss to his unprepared lips. He gaped at her when she pulled away. Sansa gave him a smirk of her own. “At least now I know one way to muzzle you.”

“Then you’d better keep doing it before I start howling.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ki a koe te tau—” came the melody of a rich male voice just down the hall. “Ahakoa haere koe ki hea—”                                                                                                                                                           

Sandor lifted his head from the crook of Sansa’s neck, drawing a disgruntled mewl from her drowsy throat.

They had drifted back into a shallow doze in spite of the imminent threat of being disturbed. He couldn’t have resisted if he wanted to; she was just too damn comfortable.

The Hound sat up and grasped the hilt of the dirk stuffed between the frame of the bed and the mattress. Sansa glanced up at him, a questioning glint in her eye. He looked towards the doorway leading to the solar. Footsteps paused outside the room, along with the singing. The curtains that shielded his quarters from the hall rustled as they parted.

“Ho, Westerosi, I brought you a spear, but you can use mine if you liked it that much,” A familiar voice chimed from the solar. “The Lady Flame’s not in her rooms.”

Sandor loosened his grip on the dirk. It was only Mahinja Do.

“I’m here, ser,” Sansa replied, swiping away the sleep from her eyes.

“A shame, truly. It would have made a beautiful song,” Mahinja brushed past the ropes of cockle shells hanging in the door frame to grin at them. “The Lord Dog and his Noble Warrior, rowing off with spears in hand to rescue the hot Lady of the Winterlands from the hands of dread Guaba!”

He sighed with a dramatic flair, ostensibly undisturbed by Sansa’s ruffled appearance.

“What do you want?” Sandor growled.

Given the revelations from the night before, he would have preferred to stay in bed the whole day with his little bird, and to the seven hells with everything else. Life had other plans for them, apparently.

The man smirked. “What I _want_ is to show my dear Westerosi friends how to dance. What I must do is find a jaguar for my nephew. I had hoped you might join me after breaking your fast.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Sandor, please,” Sansa pleaded. “For me.”

He snorted to hide a flash of panic. Did she want to get rid of him so easily? “I don’t see why I should.”

“Prince Kiza was… was killed because of me. I won’t be able to do it— because of my arm, but you can,” Sansa flushed.

His heart swelled with pride, knowing that she had remembered to keep up the pretense of injury. “I’m not leaving you unguarded. What if those bastards come back?”

“Not gonna happen today,” Mahinja interjected. “The tides are too harsh from the storm.”

“Please Sandor?” Sansa’s eyes were gleaming with all the sweet sincerity in the world.

Damn it, he couldn’t deny her anything when she looked at him like that! “All right, all right,” he finally grunted. “But I want you to keep close to Stranger just in case.”

Uncaring of the presence of their obnoxious companion, Sansa planted a brief, fierce kiss on his lips.

“Hoi, Lady Flame, don’t eat my friend before he has hunted with me,” Mahinja grinned.

The man set aside his spears and ducked out of the chambers to shout down the hall. He returned with a platter of food and an earthenware pitcher filled to the brim with an orange nectar. Delicately fluted cornucopias of ham, speared with sugarcane skewers, lined the outer rim of the platter. A wealth of scrambled eggs, sliced pineapple, and bits of red and green peppers spilled from their mouths. Behind that, a moat of fried potatoes, cubed and heavily spiced with turmeric and sea salt, surrounded a halved cantaloupe filled with wedges of fresh fruits and spirals of sliced ginger.

Mahinja set the platter on Sandor’s lap and left to retrieve three clay goblets. He poured each of them a full cup of nectar, then clapped his hands. “We give thanks to you, Atabe, Lady of Land, Giver of Life, until the day you take back our souls for your lust and fulfillment.

“Come, my friends, eat,” he gestured at the platter.

Sansa was staring at him, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Beg your pardon, did you say ‘take our souls back’?”

Mahinja nodded as he chewed on a handful of the steaming potatoes. “The Goddess is given the souls of the dead for her amusement. It pleases her to watch our spirits dance and play—”

 _That bawdy son of a whore_.

“— so she takes the living as she pleases, and gives back the souls she has grown tired of.”

“How odd,” Sansa swallowed down her bits of fruit. “The Faith of the Seven teaches that you go to either the seven heavens or the seven hells, if you are virtuous or wicked.”

“And you never come back?” Mahinja laughed. “Here, even if you are a mean old shark, the goddess gives you a second chance. She has to make up for burning us all so bad, ha! Eat, eat, before it gets cold. I am thinking you Winterlanders stay so pale because they don’t feed you well.”

“Ah, ser, if you could but spend one night feasting in Winterfell!” Sansa chirped.

They two waxed poetic on their favored dishes between bites, each description more grandiose than the last. He could have sworn he espied the genteel Lady Sansa salivating as she spun a decadent lemon cake from the air with her words.

Sandor swallowed down an overlarge bolus of potatoes, struggling not to visibly choke on the rich spices. “I don’t want that damn sister of yours bothering her.”

“Not to worry,” Mahinja replied with deceptive placidity. “She will be occupied with preparing our nephew.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, ser,” Sansa reached out to hold one of Mahinja Do’s hands with her two.

He patted the back of her hand and smiled sadly. “Kiza is with the Gods now. I rejoice to have had time with him. But enough sadness!”

The man leapt off the bed. “Let us be off, Westerosi. The jaguars will not wait for us long.”

Sandor moved the decimated platter to the bedside table, and grabbed for his bloody tunic from the night before. Mahinja clucked his tongue. “They’ll smell you too easy with that blood, my friend.”

He sneered in return. “I’m not going to go hunt a bloody cat with no protection.”

“We must have you fitted when we get back, then. Here.”

Mahinja rifled through a wicker chest at the foot of the bed, and threw him an Essosi-style linen shirt and a leather jerkin. “You’ll have to let out those laces, I think,” Sansa chirped as she inspected the jerkin.

“Probably right,” Sandor grunted as he pulled the shirt on.

Both Mahinja and Sansa were staring at him as his head breached the collar. “What?”

Sansa flushed bright red. “N-nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” Mahinja grinned. “Just enjoying the view.”

The Hound scowled and snatched the jerkin from Sansa’s lap. “Whole damn island’s gone insane,” he muttered under his breath as he loosened the leather cords running up the sides.

He slipped the jerkin on over the shirt and retied the laces. “All right, let’s go,” Sandor growled.

“Wait!”

He turned on his heel. Sansa leapt onto him, circling her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Her tongue thrust into his mouth and danced with his for too brief a time before she pulled away. “Stay safe,” she whispered against his mouth.

“As my lady commands.”

 

* * *

 

 

A haze of rainfall had settled over the island. The already-moist earth swelled and became muddy with the excess water. In place of the birdsong that normally dominated the canopy of the jungle, diverse choruses of frogs and toads croaked out their own melodies from the foliage-dense ground.

They had been trekking through the underbrush for nigh three hours, if his time was correct. Much to his chagrin, he couldn’t tell the precise hour, so thick was the cloud cover. Mahinja led the way, as he was more familiar with the terrain. His dark feet tread through the mud and roots as sure as a mountain goat would traipse about the Vale.

They were having a difficult time, as the rain had all but washed away any tracks there may have been. Sandor had discovered a pile of scat that Mahinja had confirmed as being feline in origin, but that had been a good forty-five minutes ago.

He growled under his breath. Silly little bird, falling for Mahinja’s pathetic excuses. They could have stayed inside, warm and dry, and spent the entire day exploring each other. Instead, she had to convince him to venture out into the weather on her behalf and spend far more time than he was willing to invest with this over-friendly ass.

“Ho, Westerosi!”

Sandor was beginning to miss being called the Hound.

“What?” he hissed.

“We’ll stop at this bromeliad here,” the other man pointed at a massive, broad-leafed plant with his spear.

They huddled under the plant’s cover. The Hound was surprised to find the earth beneath them to be relatively dry. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea to keep the rain so far from its base,” he grunted as he tapped on the plant’s substantial stem.

“The roots spread wide,” Mahinja replied absentmindedly, tossing him a woven grass pouch.

Sandor pulled out a hank of dried fish. He sniffed it before digging in. Some kind of bass, if he wasn’t mistaken, though he rarely had an occasion to eat fish under Joffrey’s employ.

Mahinja grabbed a filet and stuffed it into his mouth. The man chewed noisily as he rolled a large clump of some plant material in a banana leaf. A downward breeze brought a whiff of what Mahinja was working with. The Hound coughed. “Seven hells, what is that?! Smells like a damn skunk rubbed its ass on a pine tree!”

Mahinja chuckled. “Are ‘skunks’ made of ganjahar in Westeros?”

“Gan-what?”

“Ganjahar. The pride of the Summer Isles!”

“Smells like it’s gone rancid.”

“Hoi, and were you the boy of prophecy who took his first cup of wine and declared it a fine drink?” He smirked. “It is not so. Surely the Lord Dog knows that the best things in life never taste the best at first. Wine, women, seed… Such with ganjajar.”

He pulled out chunks of iron pyrite and flint, and a small cord of coconut coir. “Hold this,” Mahinja tried to hand him the cord.

There was no way Sandor was going to allow the other man to spray sparks at him. He grabbed the flint instead— to which Mahinja shrugged— and lit the end of the coir with flames. Mahinja pressed the cord to the end of the leaf, took a few testing puffs, and then a long drag. Plumes of thick smoke spewed out of the man’s flared nostrils. “Ahh, this is a good leaf,” the man said, his face split in an exceedingly pleased smile. “Ganjahar calms the nerves, makes it easier to see things you would have never seen otherwise. Good for hunting. Try it.”

He offered the rolled leaf to Sandor, who pinched the end gingerly. “Deep breath,” Mahinja instructed.

The Hound brought the ganjahar to his lips and inhaled. Hot smoke flooded his throat and set him to choking. “Seven— fucking hells!” Sandor cursed between hacks. “This is— horseshit—”

“Slower, my friend. Like fine wine,” Mahinja demonstrated with a long, languid pull. “Give it time to breathe.”

“I’ll have your damn head before this is through,” he snarled as he retook the proffered leaf.

Let it not be said that the mighty Hound was conquered by a measly vegetable. This time, he took the warrior’s advice. The smoke had time to cool before hitting his lungs, and, oddly, became sweeter the longer he held it in his chest. He exhaled, a fog of ganjahar clouding his vision for a breath before dissipating in the humid jungle air. Mahinja urged him to take another hit, and he obliged the man, drawing the smoldering leaf into his chest deeper and deeper.

He handed the ganjahar leaf back to Mahinja and leaned back against the stem of the bromeliad. The world was beginning to blur around him— no, that wasn’t quite right. It was more like his whole brain had been transformed to a mist in his skull. He turned his head out towards the rain and his eye took a few seconds to register that they had been moved. “Ho-ly shit,” he muttered. “My damn head’s floating…”

Mahinja started laughing, the familiar sound taking on a queer, melodic quality he hhad never noticed as it reverberated through the air. “We call that ‘high’ Westerosi—”

The more Mahinja talked, the more nuanced the melody of his voice. Sandor was fascinated.

“— Yukahu crafted ganjahar to bring us closer to the gods.”

“Hey Mahinja.”

“Hm.”

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“… Give me another hit of that thing.”

They passed the leaf back and forth, swapping stories from campaigns they had been in. Through the haze of ganjahar, Sandor felt a new appreciation for the other man, perhaps even a sense of camaraderie. They had both served under incompetent commanders before, both experienced the urge to fuck after a battle. Mahinja had pointed out a jagged scar on his bicep from a hired Norvoshi’s axe; Sandor had revealed a similar scar on his own arm, though the axe in question had come from a Dornishman.

As the leaf grew smaller and smaller, a peaceable feeling of relaxation had settled over him. Mahinja sprawled out on the earth beside him and gave a sigh of contentment. “You are a lucky man, to wake up beside the Lady Flame.”

“It would have been impossible where we are from. She was the Moon Maid, and I am the scum of the earth,” he said, the smoke robbing his voice of its usual resentment.

“But that doesn’t matter,” Mahinja Do replied with his eyes closed. “Your winter gods have no power on these isles. Your lions and stags have no men to separate you here.”

He snorted. “And you think your people will let her be with me, with a face like this?”

“Our people love you both and want your happiness.”

He would have stood up and kicked the other man for his audacity, but the violence just seemed to float away, like piss in a stream. Sandor laughed at the thought. If anger came out as piss, the Clegane men would have stunk to the Seven Heavens. “Your people love Sansa, not me.”

“Not so, Westerosi. I know you have enjoyed the affections of Sokuro To at least once, and she does not give to a man she does not want.”

“Who?”

“Beautiful, brazen woman? Wide hips and a talent for sucking cock?”

“Oh. That one.”

“Don’t sound so forlorn, Westerosi! She is a wonderful lover. I know for a fact that there are quite a few of my warriors that would have killed to be in her sandals. Or the Lady Flame’s for that matter.”

A worm of panic started to flex in his chest. “What?”

Mahinja shook his head. “The Lord Dog must be blind to not notice all the looks.”

“What?” The worm wriggled faster.

“We are not a prudish people, Lord Dog. We love to take pleasure and we love to give it. What is between your legs doesn’t matter. A man’s mouth feels just as good as a woman’s. Sometimes better.

“Shall I show you?” Mahinja placed a hand on his arm.

That was too much.

Sandor stood abruptly and stumbled, his head swimming from the ganjahar. He had to get away. _Now_.

The Hound grabbed his spear and started darting through the brush.

“Ho, Westerosi!” Mahinja cried.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” He shouted back.

They were getting off this godforsaken island if he had to swim back to Dorne.

 

* * *

 

 

Sandor stumbled back into the village port after an hour and a half of walking, his haste driven by the horror of what had just occurred. Men were not supposed to fuck other men, it just… wasn’t right! Never mind that some of the most amoral, sadistic bastards he had the displeasure of knowing weren’t interested in men. Never mind that Renly Baratheon had been a well-respected lord regardless of his sexual inclinations. Never mind that Sandor enjoyed having his…

Seven fucking hells.

Drenched in mud and rainwater, the Hound lurched into a tavern that had been constructed to imitate those seen in Essos (obviously for the comfort of the traders). It was there that he found a Penthoshi ship captain with dyed green hair that was willing to brave the storm. “How much for passage for two to Lys?” He growled in the Common Tongue.

The captain looked at his ruffled appearance with a critical eye. “More than you can afford. I have heard there were people from the Seven Kingdoms here. I have also heard that the king is not keen on letting you leave.”

He eyed the man’s clothing. There were destriers embroidered on his vest, and a silver stallion ring on one of his fingers. Sandor swallowed.

 He had never had anything to his name besides his steel and his horse. Even with the loss of his armor and sword, he had not felt entirely defenseless because of Stranger’s presence. The warhorse was a demon in battle, a staunch protector outside of it, and beyond all of that, Stranger was one of the few things in this life he actually cared about.

But he cared for Sansa more. As much as he was attached to Stranger, he could find another mount; Sansa was irreplaceable.

Sandor’s heart twisted. “You like horses.”

“I do.”

“You’ve seen the courser then.”

“I have.”

“Then I have a proposal for you.”

Sandor left with passage to Lys. They would set sail at dawn the next day, in the hopes that the rain would let up. In return, he would leave Stranger in the captain’s care.

The Hound began the long walk to the central pyramid with a heavy heart, and thought of a way to tell Sansa.


End file.
